


Jupiter Jazz

by MonstrousRegiment, Pangea



Series: Space Oddity [3]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Space, FANDOM SMASH, M/M, Outer Space, Space Jam 2, Warning: Nick Fury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-25
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-08 12:27:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 125,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/443189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonstrousRegiment/pseuds/MonstrousRegiment, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pangea/pseuds/Pangea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prince Charles Xavier is still Deputy Commander of the TEF Heartsteel and life has been great ever since he and his best friend and Commander of the Heartsteel, War-Prince Erik Lehnsherr, finally got all of their feelings out on the table.  Better than great, really.</p><p>It doesn't help, though, that the Nyrulians are a bit sore over him blowing up their ship, and a war is brewing.  And because Charles has that kind of luck, they're in the middle of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> BOOM.

This was not how things were supposed to be.

This was not how things were supposed to be at all, really, but now that he thinks about it, none of this from the start should have ever happened, yet here they all are and everything’s gone to shit and it’s all his fault.

He could laugh, he really could, but at this point his laughter might come out a tad bit hysterical and then he’s also a little afraid of what will come after his laughs have run out.

Even if he were ready to fall apart and let the madness take him, maybe even sustain him through what he knows is happening, Erik is not entirely his own man. He has his crew, the fine men and women surrounding him here in the bridge, to think about. He can’t let himself go.

Then again, it’s likely that no one will hear him over the alarms anyway.

Charles looks over across the bridge towards Erik, and the War-Prince is already looking back, meeting Charles’ gaze in grim realization.  The bridge is awash with several different colors of light as the main screen flashes several different warnings and monitors go wild with an outpouring of readings, detailing all the things that are going wrong.  Erik’s face is illuminated by each flash of light, features thrown into stark contrast, and for a moment all they can do is stare at each other, deaf and blind to the rest of the world, and Charles’ mouth goes dry because they both _know_.

It’s too loud over the blaring alarms and the shouts of the crew to hear anything, but Charles can still read lips and as he looks over at his Commander, his best friend, the love of his life, Erik mouths very slowly, “ _No_.”

And Charles can only look back at him helplessly because he knows Erik knows better than that—because yes, yes, _oh god_ , yes.

It’s like a punch to the gut, and for a moment his lungs press in tight and refuse to work.

“Fuck, goddamn it, our fucking shields are fried, we can’t fucking hold them,” Scott is shouting, and he’s trying to do something on his screen and if Charles’ mouth wasn’t so dry he might’ve summoned up the courage to tell the TO that it was pointless, there’s nothing to be done now, “they’re going to fucking rip us to pieces—”

“Two of our engines are down,” Logan announces over the din grimly, nearly biting through his cigar, “we’re fucking sunk, boys—”

“Evacuate the ship,” Erik says, utterly calm, his voice cutting across everything else even as he maintains eye contact with Charles, never blinking, “I want everyone off.  There’s still enough time yet to get everyone away.”

“And what the fuck are you going to do?” Scott demands, throwing rank and decorum out the window entirely as he whirls around in his seat to glare accusingly at the War-Prince.  That’s the thing, though, isn’t it—Scott already knows too, and even so he’s still addressing Erik as an equal, as a friend, rather than as his Commander.

Perhaps he’d rather remember Erik that way instead. Maybe he even thinks he can say or do something that will sway Erik, make him change his mind.

Charles doesn’t bother asking, or hoping.  He already knows too.

Erik holds Charles’ gaze still, even as the Heartsteel gives a violent shudder beneath them and the whole bridge shakes.  “You know as well as I do,” he says quietly, and yet somehow his voice is still crystal clear, “the captain always goes down with the ship.”


	2. At least some things never change

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reg would like to add a disclaimer to all of her responses to any of your comments she may have answered—try not to take her TOO seriously. ;) We're just messing with you guys.
> 
> Mostly.
> 
> Also, just in case it isn't clear, the last chapter took place in the future. From here on out, we're in the present.
> 
> Welcome to The Sequel. :)

Charles Francis Xavier, Prince of the 322nd Brigade of Third Earth, Deputy Commander of the TEF Heartsteel, and Graduate of High Distinction from the Imperial Academy is late.

It’s kind of hard to feel remotely concerned about things like that, though, Charles has discovered, when his commanding officer is doing _something_ with his mouth that is making Charles’ toes curl.

“Erik,” he manages to get out anyway, even if it sounds slightly strangled and definitely breathless, “we are going to— _oh god_ —be late—”

Erik hums in answer—which makes Charles shiver—and is decidedly unconcerned in every way, glancing up at Charles briefly, eyebrows raised.  Charles opens his mouth slightly but no sound comes out because that’s _Erik_ looking back at him, all while he takes Charles’ cock deeper into his mouth, sucking him into wet warmth and making Charles’ hips jerk helplessly at the same time.

Points for effort, Charles thinks as he collapses back against the pillows with a moan, panting as he looks up at the ceiling.  His hips jerk again and Erik’s hands slide up to pin him down in place, and Charles can’t exactly help it when his back starts to arch because oh god Erik is _sucking_ —

He comes with a cry and Erik swallows him down because the fucker makes everything look easy, licking at Charles’ cock until the Deputy gets out a whimper of protest, over-sensitized and still not yet recovered.

Erik pulls off of him with a slick, wet noise that makes Charles shiver again.  “You started it.”  The War-Prince sounds smug.  Fucker.  “Let it not be said that I don’t finish things.”

Charles is still inhaling big lungfuls of air so it takes him a moment to respond.  “I nearly forgot what a complete wanker you are,” he says once he gets his voice back, “how silly of me.”

“You’re bitching,” Erik observes idly, sitting up and moving further up the bed until he’s level with Charles, “so it must have been good.”  His eyes are lazy slits and he sounds amused, but the beginnings of a small smile are teasing at the corners of his lips.

Charles smiles back, because this is Erik and Erik knows him well.  “Better than good.”

Erik smirks, because he is a wanker.  “I know.”

Charles rolls his eyes because Jesus Christ, really?  He reaches up and grabs on to Erik’s shirt, dragging the War-Prince down into a kiss.  That’s better.  Erik comes willingly, teasing Charles’ mouth open and slipping his tongue in past Charles’ lips, kissing the Deputy deep and long. 

Charles moves one hand up to fist lightly in Erik’s hair, suddenly glad that he’s lying back with Erik covering him because he thinks if he were standing his knees would probably be going weak.  He can still hardly believe it, sometimes, that Erik loves him back in the same way that Charles has loved Erik for years.  He’s not sure if he’ll ever get used to it, as if it’s too wonderful to be true.  It’s a shame that they don’t have more time right now, or Charles would—

He yelps, breaking the kiss by rolling sideways out of Erik’s grasp.  “Shit!  We’re late!”  He scrambles up, searching desperately through the bedclothes for his pants, goddamn it where are they, they were just right here—

Erik gives a light chuckle, which Charles spares a moment to appreciate even as he still searches frantically because it’s still his favorite sound in the entire galaxy.  The War-Prince rises from the bed, stretching, and then straightens his uniform jacket.  He’s already dressed, since he’d taken the time to do so after Charles had surprised him with a blowjob.

Then he’d pounced on Charles. 

“Relax.”  Erik picks Charles’ own uniform jacket up from the floor and shakes it out lightly before he tosses it over.  “It’s fine.”

“You’re not the one being debriefed,” Charles says back, snatching the jacket and shrugging it on, “you’re only going to be there out of protocol so it’s not you they’re waiting for.”  _There_ they are—he finds his pants and pulls them on quickly, fumbling with the zipper.

Charles practically launches himself off the bed, which he realizes is a mistake almost as soon as he’s done it because his bad leg buckles beneath him and very suddenly he’s on the floor.

Erik is next to him in the blink of an eye.  “Easy,” he cautions, offering Charles leverage up and keeping his hold on the Prince even after Charles has found his balance again, “you’re going to have to go slow on your leg anyway.  No point in rushing.”

Charles sighs, testing his weight on his leg tentatively.  Now that he’s gone and crushed it, it’s sore again.  “I wish it would hurry up and heal.  I’m tired of limping around.”

“McCoy told you it wouldn’t be instantaneous.” Erik reminds him, sounding faintly amused again.  “It’s only been two days.”  He gives Charles a gentle squeeze and then lets go.

Charles smiles despite himself.  “I’m still tired of limping around,” he says matter-of-factly as he moves, more carefully this time, going across the room to finish getting dressed, “but I suppose I can exercise a little patience.”

“Turning over a new leaf,” Erik says dryly, “mind that you don’t sprain yourself.”

“Shut—” Charles comes to a full stop when he catches sight of the time.  “Oh god we’re _that_ late?  Shit!”

Erik catches him by the arm when he tries to dash out of the room, rolling his eyes.  “Slowly,” he says pointedly as the door slides open with a hiss, “on your leg.”  He walks them both out into the long hallway of the private quarters deck of the Heartsteel.

“He’s going to kill me.” Charles says flatly as they board the elevator, pushing his hair off his forehead in vain.  “He’s going to chew me up and spit me out sideways.”

Erik huffs out a sound.  “Contrary to what is apparently popular belief, I don’t think the Paladin dines on human flesh.”  Erik looks poised and put together, standing calmly at ease with his arms folded as the elevator begins to descend through the ship.

“Speak for yourself.”  Charles feels like he’s still sweaty and probably looks rumpled to boot.  Great.  “You’re not the one he’ll be grilling.”

“That was what the panel was for,” Erik says dismissively as the doors hiss open and they step out onto the Heartsteel’s lowest deck, side-by-side, “you’re just being debriefed today.  He’ll do most of the talking.”

People snap to attention as they pass, and Charles tries to acknowledge most of them with a nod here or there while Erik sweeps by.  The War-Prince has slowed his usual longer strides to accommodate for Charles’ limp, but he still strikes an imposing figure as they make their way down the gangway, exiting the Heartsteel and stepping down into the Oh-Bee.

Charles winces as he puts a little too much of his weight on his bad leg.  They’ve been on the Strontium for two days now, and he’d spent the majority of the first day in front of a panel of War-Princes and Paladins, detailing the events of his capture by the Nyrulians.  It’d been no small relief when he’d been told yesterday morning that he was to take the day off and wait for his debriefing on the following day.

He’d spent the entirety of it with Erik, and they’d spent the entirety of it in bed—reacquainting themselves with each other in very new ways, some of which make Charles flush even now as he glances over at Erik.  This thing between them, although new, feels casual and easy as if it really were several years old; but then again, Charles supposes that it really had been several years in the making.

That doesn’t change how his heart skips a beat when Erik glances back over at him and they share a long look, conveying so much without saying a single word at all.

At this time of the morning the Strontium’s halls and corridors are on the busy side, and with Charles’ limp and Erik’s insistence he take it easy, they are still even later to the conference room in the Headquarters level.  Charles doesn’t have a clock on him, but he estimates well over twenty minutes after the appointed hour.

Pretty bad trouble, probably, if Charles knows anything about Paladins.

They made the way up the elevator in silence.  Charles fixes his uniform jacket, glancing down at himself to make sure everything is in its right place and looks impeccable.  He can’t pull off a uniform like Erik can, with those broad shoulders and that narrow waist, but he can manage to look competent and he will, damn it.

Erik’s hand catches his own as he checks the insignia in his chest to ascertain it’s in the right position, and pulls his gently down between them.

“Stop that. It’ll be fine, Charles.  You performed admirably in the face of an untenable situation.”

Charles frowns.  “Yes, well, that was not entirely the opinion the board appeared to have—“

“The board is full of imbeciles.”

“This elevator has _cameras_ , Erik.”

Erik doesn’t roll his eyes, but the minute shift of his shoulders communicates his feelings on the matter well enough to Charles’ practiced eye.

Charles is so nervous by the time they make it to the right floor that Erik is forced to take his arm and, in the guise of helping him move on his injured leg, keep him at a steady, slow pace.  They reach conference room A-157 and stop outside the doors so Charles can pause, inhale, and center himself.

Then the doors slide open, and the Prince and War-Prince of the TEF Heartsteel step inside a medium-sized conference room occupied almost entirely by a long table lined with chairs.  The far wall is taken up mostly by a large window open to black space studded with stars.

The Paladin sits at the head of the table, the bottom half of his face hidden by his laced hands, completely and utterly neutral.

This just took a turn from _pretty bad trouble_ to _deep shit_.

 

X

 

Logan Fuck You Howlett, Legionnaire of the 322nd Brigade of Third Earth, Helmsman of the TEF Heartsteel, and (Dubiously A, a lot of people like to add) Graduate from the Imperial Academy is laughing.

That’s right.  Fuck.  You.

He’s laughing because Scott Summers is the biggest dumbass this side of the goddamn Glacier Nebula.

“Stop laughing,” Scott hisses even as he frantically taps at his comm pad, fingers flying across the small screen, “this is just as much your fault as it is mine, asshole—”

“Oh no,” Logan answers with a smirk, “you’re the dickbag who wanted to see if he could reprogram the airlock commands, not me.  This is all you, Summers.”

“You suggested it in the first place.”  Jesus, Scott is nearly spitting.  “This was _your_ idea.”

Logan just laughs some more.  “Well fuck me, Summers, it’s not _my_ program that’s currently ejecting all of that cargo into orbit, is it?”

Scott looks up from his comm pad, staring out the plasma window again where they have a very nice view of cargo hold 678-D, its bay doors wide open to the vacuum of space.  Containers large and small are already floating in the zero gravity, and several of them have been sucked out of the hold and into empty space, drifting away from the Oh-Bee.

“ _Shit_.”  Scott curses.  “I wanted it to lock, not open.”

“You’re a fucking idiot.” Logan says idly.  He takes his cigar out of his pocket and puts it in his mouth.  He can’t wait until the War-Prince sees this.

If the War-Prince ever decides to pull his goddamn dick out of the Prince anytime soon and actually leave his fucking quarters, Jesus Christ.

“You don’t think there’s anything important in those, do you?” Scott wonders.  “Who keeps their shit in 678-D, anyway?”

Logan shrugs.  “Some asshole, I bet.”

 

X

 

Charles feels his mouth dry, and manages to gather himself up and snap to attention.  The Paladin does nothing, he just continues staring.

Erik also snaps to attention briefly before falling out and, very subtly, urges Charles forward by the arm.  The War-Prince’s face is, as usual, a calm mask devoid of any expression.  Charles really needs to learn that trick.  He was convinced he had it down to a tee, but then he tried to show Erik and the wanker laughed out loud for a good long while, and then argued Charles looked like a space-whale in the face of an oncoming space trash incinerator’s position lights.

“How good of you to have found the time to join me, Deputy-Commander,” the Paladin says at last, tone as flat as his eyes.  Eye.  Eye and eyepatch.  Charles isn’t quite sure where to look.  He settles for the one working eye, because that’s probably the polite thing to do.  Jesus, he hadn’t even thought about how complicated this would be.

“I apologize, sir, the Deputy Commander was delayed because of me,” Erik says smoothly.

That’s entirely true, and the look the Paladin throws Erik’s way very briefly makes Charles feel like the man knows _precisely_ how he was delayed, and in what exact positions.  In everything but that glance, the Paladin ignores Erik with the ease of a man who knows his lack of manners cannot be held against him, for one because everybody knows he doesn’t have them, and for another because he’s high-ranking enough no one can touch him anyway.

In Logan’s words, he can afford to be a complete dick to everyone, and does so with relish.

“Sit.”

It’s not an invitation, so Charles quickly takes a chair and obeys.  The Paladin’s eye doesn’t stray for him one minute, and only now, once they are seated, does he change position to lean back in his chair and lace his fingers in his lap.  As he moves his leather coat crinkles quietly.  The man wears a lot of leather.  Leather in space looks like a poor choice, or at least and unnecessary one.

But he’s not going to be the one to tell Paladin Nicholas Fury that he ought to rethink his fashion choices.

Charles laces his hands calmly on his lap and endeavors to look composed and capable.  It’s difficult to tell whether he’s succeeding in this or not, since Paladin Fury has as good a neutral face as Erik, or possibly even better on account of the eye patch.

Many rumors circulate the Fleet about how Paladin Fury lost his left eye, but the most common one is that he had an unfortunate light saber accident.  Charles isn’t quite sure what a light saber is, but it sounds tricky.

“There were a couple of points I’d like to go over with you specifically, Deputy Commander Xavier,” the Paladin says, fixing his eye on Charles’.  “First of all, your dashing escape in the company of one infamous Wade Wilson, and the aforementioned’s conspicuous absence.”

Charles feels his heart sink. “Mr. Wilson is a wanted man?”  This is just what he needs.  Finding out now that he helped and abetted a psychotic bounty-hunter running from the law.  Bounty-hunting is legal, if borderline, but it doesn’t take much to make Charles believe that Wilson does what he feels like with very little care on what side of the law it lands him.

The Paladin makes a vague gesture with his hand.  “Not at all.  The law is not looking for him.  In fact, if he can stay on the other side of the galaxy form me, it’s too fucking close.”

“You’ve met him?” Charles asks, curious and somewhat concerned.  No good can come from one Paladin Fury meeting one Deadpool.

“Unfortunately,” the Paladin gives Charles a piercing look.  “I brought him in for questioning once. First thing he said as soon as I sat his ass down was ‘you won’t get a word out of me. Not a peep. Not one word. Nothing. Nada.’  And several other variations, including the number zero in different languages. Then he proceeded to talk.  Nonstop.  For four hours.”

Charles winces.  That sounds like Wade alright.

“I offered Mr. Wilson the opportunity to join us in the Strontium, but he declined and abandoned the Heartsteel aboard his own ship.”

“Oh, yeah, that ship,” Paladin Fury has no files or datapads in his hands, but the look in his dark eye suggests he doesn’t need any such thing to aid him in remembering whatever comes out of Charles’ mouth.  It’s off-putting to the extreme.  Charles fights the urge to squirm or double-check the state of his uniform.  He tells himself to relax.  “What’s the name again?”

 There’s no outward sign of it, but Charles is certain Paladin Fury is amused.  The fucker.

“Bright Morning Sun Rising Over the Tall Craggy Mountains While the Silvery Mist Curls Gently Through the Trees on a Light Breeze that Wafts the Smell of the Cooling Pie Sitting on the Windowsill Throughout the Entire Log Cabin, sir.”

Fury allows himself a slight smirk, before his face returns to its stony mask.  Charles has the unpleasant sensation he has just passed a test.

“Walk me through the escape one more time.  Leave no details behind.  Pay special attention to the creature they took you to at the end.”

Charles does so, calmly and methodically, obeying the order to its exact specifications.  Throughout, Paladin Fury remains stone-faced and silent, making very little comments when he wants Charles explore a particular turn of events.  After the whole affair has been reviewed to Fury’s apparent satisfaction, the Paladin surprises both Charles and Erik by zeroing-in on the moment Charles knows the least about—his abduction.

“I apprehended Marko personally,” Erik speaks up, somewhat startled.

“Yes, I know.”  Fury spares him a glance. “I’ve been over the medical chart, thank you, War-Prince Lehnsherr.  You’re here as a courtesy, so be so kind as to put a lid on it.”

Erik’s own face is a blank mask, but Charles can almost taste the prickliness of his silence in the tense lines of his shoulders, stiff under the uniform.

“Got any idea why he sold you out, Deputy Commander?”

Charles inhales and exhales carefully, blinking back the hot wash of betrayal and anger, and humiliation at being so easily bested.

“I don’t, sir, except that his personal hate for me justified it for him.”

“That sounds like a loose excuse to sell someone out to an enemy race.  If I had my pick, I would throw a War-Prince at them, not a simple Prince.”

Charles has no answers.  He doesn’t know.

Fury leans forward, pressing his fingertips to the cool metal of the table, eye intent.  “It doesn’t add up, Deputy Commander.  You’re a smart kid.  Start joining dots and come back to me when you have something worthwhile to put on the table.  Dismissed.”

Erik and Charles rise, more or less equally stiffly, and snap to attention.  Then they both fall out and exit the conference room, the door sliding shut behind them with a hiss.

Erik is silent and still utterly expressionless as they walk back down the hall, and Charles doesn’t dare bring up Fury just yet.  He’s still privately reeling from having to recount— _again_ —the tale of his capture.  It’s not as if he had been outright tortured by the Nyrulians, per say, but he’s slowly beginning to find that the high-stress hours he underwent while aboard their ship have left lingering affects beyond his injured leg.

Just talking about the enormous monster in the dark with the tentacles and the noxious gas that had completely skewed his senses and nearly drowned him with paralyzing fear has left Charles feeling shaky all over again.

“He shouldn’t have made you tell all of that again.” Erik says abruptly, voice flat.  Sometimes it’s as if he can read Charles’ mind.  “He heard it all before.”

“He’s just being thorough.” Charles offers wearily.

Erik snorts in disagreement.

“I don’t know what he wants me to say about Cain,” Charles says, somewhat helplessly, “other than he really just hates me, and that’s good enough reason for him to sell me out.”  He looks over at Erik and finds the War-Prince looking broodingly out the large plasma window to their left as they walk.  “You think there’s actually more to it?”

“I don’t know.” Erik answers him slowly.  “He didn’t say anything about how the investigation of Marko Industries was proceeding.”

“No, he didn’t.” Charles agrees.  He’s starting to get an entirely different sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach now, making him feel edgy.

Erik glances over and he must see something in Charles’ expression because the War-Prince comes to a stop, turning to face Charles and reaching out to touch the side of the Prince’s face lightly.  “You’re making the same face you used to around finals back at the Academy.  Stop worrying.”

Charles chuckles a little, giving a faint smile.  He knows Erik isn’t very good at coping with emotions, so for him to say that now means a lot.  “It’s just the Markos.  I think I’m allergic.”

Erik slowly lets his hand drop back down to his side, studying Charles with all of his focused intensity.  “They can’t hurt you.  Not anymore.”

Charles reaches over to take Erik’s hand deftly, and this time his smile is a little bit more real because he can read between the lines clear as daylight.

_I won’t let them._

 

X

 

By the time Scott manages to get the program to do exactly what he fucking wants, about half of what had once been the contents of cargo hold 678-D have become lone travelers of deep space.  Logan’s cigar is half-way gone.  Scott’s temper has been lost long ago, and what little composure he has held onto, he keeps only by a thin thread.

Any smart man in these conditions would try to offer a helping hand and some support, so of course what Logan does is lean closer and hit Scott in the back of the head as he simultaneously exhales cigar smoke right in his face.

“Our daring leader is going to slice you to bits, and I’ll make sure to catch it all on camera.”

Scott lunges at him, catches him by the front of the uniform and drags him to the deck.  What follows can only properly be described as a wrestling bout, surprisingly evenly matched and unsurprisingly violent.  For all they had the same training in the Academy, Logan is somewhat on a higher class in weight and mass, and because he is, as previously stated, a complete fucking asshole, he has no problems with abusing both.

The short-lived struggle ends with Scott face-down on the deck, both arms twisted behind his back, and Logan sitting on the small of his back.  They are both panting harshly, and one way or the other it would most likely had developed into another sort of struggling, if not for the fact at that moment there as a soft chime.

“Legionnaires Howlett and Summers,” Raven says calmly. “The cargo you have released into dead space has begun to drift away. If you intend to retrieve it, now is the moment.”

Logan and Scott freeze.  Actually, that’s a pretty good fucking idea, isn’t it.  They scramble to their feet, and just as Logan’s fingers are darting across screens to unlock one of the shuttles, Raven speaks up again:

“The War Prince and Prince have returned to the ship.”

Logan and Scott exchange glances.

Fuck.

“What do you think are the chances he’ll be fucked-out enough he’ll let this one slip?” Scott asks.

“From one to ten?”

“Yeah.”

“Minus twenty.”  Logan blows out another puff of smoke.  He kept his cigar firmly in his mouth throughout the entire brawl, fuck you very much.  “They just got debriefed, which means they actually just got their assholes ripped.  Wonder how that’s going to work out for them—”

“Jesus Christ, _no_ ,” Scott interrupts him, sounding horrified, “I don’t want to even fucking _think_ about the two of them—”

“—later when they’re fucking each other’s brains out.” Logan finishes triumphantly with a smirk.

“You’re so goddamn disgusting.”

Logan snorts, his fingers moving across the screen again, keying out the code for a shuttle.  There’s no fucking helping it now.  The War-Prince and Prince are already back so they’re going to find out sooner or later, and Logan bets the rest of this month’s shitty pay that he’ll be equally blamed for Scott’s dumbass reprogramming idea.  The Commander likes to lump them both together in these kinds of situations.  Dick.

The door to one of the shuttles hisses open and Logan jerks his head towards the ship.  “Get in, fucktard.  We have some luggage to pick up.”

 

X

 

Back on the Heartsteel they take the elevator straight up to the bridge, standing quietly together.  It’s no different from the hundreds of times Charles has ridden the elevator up with Erik, except this time he stands next to his friend as, well, more than just his friend.

Charles used to spend long hours wondering what it would be like, and any wishful thinking he ever could have come up with pales in comparison to the actuality.

The door hisses open to admit them onto the bridge and when they step out of the elevator together Erik’s hand brushes against the small of Charles’ back, guiding him out absently, and Charles hides a smile.  The bridge is quiet and empty, but lights up for them at once as Raven projects herself into view.

“Hello, sir.”  She’s chosen her human form with the blond hair today, addressing Erik first as the War-Prince heads immediately for the main screen.

“Show me our fuel levels, Raven.” Erik says in response, and the main screen flickers obediently, readings listing out promptly.  “Send a message down to Azazel, Charles.  I want us prepared to leave at a moment’s notice.”

“You think Fury has something in mind already?” Charles asks, even as he obeys.  “Raven, could I get our supply list, please?”

“I wouldn’t pretend to know the inner workings of Fury’s mind.” Erik says dryly.  He pauses, growing grim.  “But I would be comfortable in assuming that he has us in line for something.”

Charles tries not to consider that too closely.  “Azazel says it’ll be done within the hour.”

“Good.”

“Here is the list, Charles.” Raven says as the supply list pulls up onto the screen.  “You will find that we are already well-stocked,” she continues calmly, “save for the fact that a quarter of our cargo has been ejected into orbit.”

Charles doesn’t need to turn around to know that Erik has gone very still.  “Um,” he says, “sorry, love, didn’t quite catch that.  What was that?”

“A quarter of our cargo has been ejected into orbit.”  Raven uses her hologram to gesture towards the main screen.

Charles looks over.  He sort of doesn’t want to.  Ignorance is bliss, and all that.

The main screen clears of data readouts and now instead shows their view out into space from the Oh-Bee.  Third Earth is huge at this small distance, but the blackness of space and tiny dots of light from stars are visible around the edges.  Ignea and Aureus, the dual suns, aren’t visible from this angle, but they light up Third Earth brightly, making the planet seem almost fluorescent.  It’s a beautiful view.

Or it would be, if it wasn’t for the fact that Charles can pick out several different containers floating past.

Erik has moved, coming up to stand beside Charles as they both stare at the screen.  The War-Prince is unreadable as ever at first glance, but it doesn’t take much to guess that he’s not amused.

Charles squints at the screen.  Oh god.  “Is that—?”

“Yes,” Erik says flatly, “it is.”

A shuttle zips across the screen, careening wildly through space.  Raven doesn’t even need to be told to zoom in on the small ship, right at its small front window.

Scott looks like he’s cackling.  Logan actually happens to look over, even if there’s no way he could possibly know that they’re watching, and gives them the finger.

Charles winces when the shuttle hits one of the larger containers.  Logan should really know better than to not watch where he’s going, he’s supposed to be the Helmsman for Christ’s sake.

“Well,” he remarks brightly to Erik, who looks as if he’s about three seconds from warming up the Heartsteel’s big guns, “at least _some_ things never change.”


	3. My crew is volatile

Scott Christopher Summers, Senior Legionnaire of the 322nd Brigade of Third Earth, Technical Officer (just say TO for Christ’s sake, asswipe) of the TEF Heartsteel, and Graduate of Distinction from the Imperial Academy is pissed.

This is a normal state of affairs, since he’s forced to hang out with douchebags like Logan on a daily basis.

“What the fuck, watch where you’re driving!” Scott snaps as they slam into one of the cargo containers, the entire shuttle giving one long shudder. “It’s not like they can actually see you!”

Logan’s still flicking the Heartsteel off anyway even as he throws the shuttle in reverse. They zoom backwards, spinning a little when Logan tilts the controls. “It’s the thought that counts.”

“I didn’t know you _could_ think, asshole.”

Logan tries to punch him but Scott was expecting this and ducks. They scuffle violently for a few moments, and they probably would have ended up on the floor again had not the shuttle’s view screen blinked on at that moment, and they both freeze.

“What,” the War-Prince deadpans, “are you doing.”

Scott glances at Logan. He’s holding Logan’s fist with one hand, while his other hand is pressed against Logan’s face. He’d been trying to go in for a headlock, goddamn it. Logan himself has the fingers of his free hand wrapped around Scott’s throat.

They both quickly let go of each other and snap to attention. Logan even takes the time to nudge the controls a little so the shuttle stops spinning and comes to a stop, hovering. Pretty fucking presentable, if you ask Scott.

“Commander,” Logan greets the War-Prince cheerfully, and then adds, “Deputy.” The fucking creeper makes sure to give the Prince a particularly lewd grin, teeth and all. Scott would roll his eyes if he could, Jesus Christ.

“Hello, gentlemen.” Charles is standing beside the Commander. He looks slightly nervous. “Fine day for, ah, spinning.”

Scott figures he’d look pretty goddamn nervous too if he was standing next to the Commander too at this point, but he’s not sure what the fuck Charles is worried about. He could probably lead the War-Prince around by his dick at this point.

Not that he’d ever do that, now, would he, since he’s too goddamn _nice_. Jesus.

Scott grins at him to because what the hell, why not. “Hello sirs. It _is_ a fine day.”

“Goddamn prime example of a fine day,” Logan agrees, “glad you could actually share it with us.”

“Enough.” The War-Prince doesn’t seem to find either of them funny, which isn’t really surprising. His fucking loss, though. “Explain.”

“He did it.” Scott and Logan both say immediately, followed by a simultaneous outcry, “What the hell?” Scott turns his head sideways to glare at Logan. Fucking traitor.

“Why don’t you start at the beginning?” Charles offers quickly before they can start fighting again. Beside him the War-Prince’s expression hasn’t changed but generally that means nothing.

Scott turns his head back towards the screen. They probably should just start explaining if they want to survive with their fucking faces still intact. “Logan suggested that I try reprogramming the airlocks, sir. I only wanted to unlock and relock them.”

“But then he went further and opened one of ‘em,” Logan continues, “and then he couldn’t figure out how to close the damn thing. Sir.” At least the asswipe managed to say it with a straight face.

The War-Prince is definitely Not Impressed. “Raven.”

“Yes sir?” The AI pulls her human face up alongside the transmission like a third party.

“You let them do this.”

“Legionnaire Summers’ programming was sound,” Raven replies calmly, “I saw no reason to firewall his program, sir.”

“If our cargo is floating needlessly out into empty space,” the Commander says pleasantly, “you firewall his program.”

“Understood, sir.”

“I want every last cargo container back in the hold exactly as it was.” He’s looking at the both of them now, still perfectly expressionless which means he’s probably fucking breathing fire or some shit on the inside. “You have an hour.”

The transmission abruptly cuts, and the shuttle’s screen reverts back to their view of space.

“What the fuck crawled up his ass and died?” Scott demands as he and Logan both drop their positions of attention. “Obviously we’re going to fucking put everything back, Jesus Christ.”

Logan grumbles something about Charles needing to take one for the team and start sucking more dick to save them all from being miserable, which is an idea that Scott can really get behind because seriously, come the fuck on.

“What the fuck does he even see in him, anyway?” Scott wonders aloud as Logan brings the shuttle around and they set off towards the nearest container.

“That,” Logan replies absently as he sticks his cigar back in his mouth, “is a goddamn mystery.”

 

X

 

Erik Magnus Lehnsherr, War-Prince of the 322nd Brigade of Third Earth, Commander of the TEF Heartsteel, and Graduate of High Distinction from the Imperial Academy is early.

This is the bane of Erik’s life. Erik is always early. He’s early everywhere. Usually by margin of several minutes, and he can’t even say he does it on purpose. Like so many other things—Logan, Scott, that one time he dislocated someone’s shoulder—it just happens to him. The Universe rearranges itself so that he, Erik Lehnsherr, is always early.

They’re technically not required to be ready for take-off for another two hours. They have no designated special mission this time, which means that unless otherwise specified, they are to take themselves to the borders and sit in patrol duty, running the occasional drill and scanning their systems and the space. It’s the most droll and boring duty a ship can be assigned to, but a vessel the size of the Heartsteel can’t afford to be kept in dock. It must necessarily at all times be doing something useful.

Or else suffer the worst of fates: be engaged in some sort of deep-space research mission, which is not only boring as hell but also means they’d have to bend to their guest scientists’ every whim. Deep space research makes Erik want to weep, though he obviously doesn’t, because he is a masculine high-ranking War-Prince and also people think he has no emotions and he likes it that way.

Charles loves research missions. Erik loves Charles, alright, he really does, he’d do anything for Charles, but research missions might just be his hard limit. The Heartsteel is one fine combat vessel, and to think it might be forced to sail out into deep space for months at a time to let people sit on their asses and stare at stars until they happen to blink makes Erik’s skin crawl.

So, hopefully, just a regular patrol run. He’ll take patrolling. Patrolling is boring, but quiet, which means Erik will be able to do what he wants to do most right now: Charles.

The Prince stands now at his station, dutifully going over the many files and lists he needs to analyze before take-off. Erik runs an appreciative look over his body, its long soft lines, and then turns back to his own duties.

But his mind strays. He keeps going back to that conference room and recalling Paladin Fury’s words. For all they make him furious—he had no right to put Charles though that again, not when it became obvious it upset the Deputy—they unfortunately also make a small pebble sitting at the bottom of his stomach begin to grow into a stone.

Why _did_ Marko take Charles? Fury’s right; if you’re going to give humankinds’ worst enemy a ticket to victory through vile betrayal, it may as well be the best you can get your hands on. At a glance things seem simple enough, but as much as Erik would love to think Marko is little more than an opportunist dick, the puzzle pieces don’t quite fit.

It’s not that Erik can’t understand why Marko would pick Charles if he could pick between Charles and Erik himself. Marko is the textbook coward; he never faces things face-on. He hit Charles in the back of the head to overpower him, and that would never work with Erik because he would never turn his back on the asshole.

This is another example of why Charles needs to never be left to his own devices; his inherent belief that people will be good so long as you give them a chance. Erik agrees that sometimes that works but most of the time, you give someone a hand and they chop it off at the shoulder and run away with it.

So of course, Marko would go for Charles. Charles can defend himself of course, though if Erik has any saying in it—spoiler: he does—he will never _need_ to again. But Charles’ body is built more for speed and reflex than brute strength; he can neutralize a threat before it becomes severe, but if the threat catches him from the back like a dickless fucking coward piece of shit of a person—maybe Erik is getting off track.

Anyway yes, it makes sense for Marko to have chosen Charles from between Erik and Charles, because he could over power the Prince more easily than the War-Prince. But that has ceased to be the main question in Erik’s restless mind.

It can’t have been easy to get the Fleet to agree to surrender the Heartsteel, a heavy-duty combat vessel, for what is basically a milk run. Escort duty was usually reserved for light-weight ships. It could be argued that the great distance to be covered and the fact that the destination was close to the Nyrulian borders warranted a well-prepared battle ship. But even then, other ships would have taken preference above the Heartsteel.

Marko had to have pulled some serious strings to get himself onboard the ship.

The question is _why_.

The sound of Charles’ chuckle draws Erik back out of his thoughts. The Deputy is laughing at something Raven has said, hands sliding across his screen as he goes through the lists. It’s good to hear him laugh; he’d looked so pale and tense after the debriefing.

“Yes, well,” Charles says, sounding amused as he waves away one list in favor of the next, “we wouldn’t want that, now would we?”

“Hardly, Charles.” Raven has moved her hologram over so that she’s standing beside him, arms folded neatly against her back as she watches him work.

Honestly. If she were actually a human Erik would accuse her of having a crush on Charles. And that wouldn’t fly at all.

Fortunately she’s an AI and Erik can rest assured that he faces no competition when it comes to Charles. Not that there ever would be, because let’s face it, Charles has him—why would he ever look anywhere else?

Erik makes himself look away before he can be caught staring.

Marko. He needs to figure out Cain Marko’s angle. Preferably before Fury does, for that matter. It’s nearly impossible to do, but it always pays to be one step ahead of the Paladin. Fury is after something, and all Erik can do is make sure that his ship and crew—that Charles—is ready for it.

Charles could be right, and all Marko could have wanted to do was screw with his stepbrother one last time. That takes a considerable amount of hatred, though, and while Erik knows very well that Charles’ childhood with the Markos was far from charmed, Cain still doesn’t strike him as a person capable of that kind of passion. He is hateful, no question about it, but he’s also lazy.

Which raises yet another question as to why Cain himself did the dirty work. Even if it turns out that his father is uninvolved—which frankly, Erik doubts; this has Kurt Marko’s greasy name written all over it—surely Cain has enough resources where he could have hired someone to act on his behalf. But Cain had come personally.

There are too many possibilities to consider, and Erik doesn’t like it.

“Erik?”

He blinks, tearing his gaze away from where he’d been staring intently out the main screen. Charles is standing beside him now, leaned to the side a little as he keeps most of his weight off his bad leg, and looking up at him with clear, blue eyes. Raven has tactfully disappeared, her hologram form gone from sight, so they are alone on the bridge.

“Thinking.” Erik says in explanation, reaching out automatically to touch just because he can, tracing the Prince’s jawline delicately. It still scares him, deep down, that this is something he’d almost lost.

“I can see that.” Charles holds still for him, wearing the hint of a smile. “We’ll be all set, once Logan and Scott finish up.”

Erik resists the urge to sigh. “Those idiots.”

Charles chuckles again, the sound low and soft. “Remember,” he says fondly, “our idiots.”

Erik huffs out a breath, slowly withdrawing his hand. He’ll grudgingly admit that he probably owes them several times over now for unwaveringly following him into Nyrulian space.

Not that he’ll ever tell them that.

“I’ve been thinking,” Charles says tentatively, “I might go down to the labs one more time before we leave. We’d really been making good progress on those sea urchin cells the last time I was there, and—”

“Go down to the labs, Charles.” Erik cuts him off smoothly. As much as he is loath to let Charles out of his sight, he knows that Charles loves those labs, and if going down there to stare at sea urchin cells through a microscope will help the Prince take his mind off his stepbrother for at least a little while, then Erik is all for it. “You have two hours until we depart. Don’t be late.”

Charles smiles. “I won’t lose track of time.”

“You say that every time. Repeatedly. And then you do.”

“Five extra minutes won’t kill you, Erik.” Charles says dismissively.

Yes it does, Erik thinks. “You’re never five minutes late. You’re twenty minutes late.”

“Are you talking about earlier? Because I recall that being _your_ fault.” Charles has narrowed his eyes accusingly, but he’s also trying and failing not to grin.

There’s the Charles Erik knows best. He gives the Prince a smirk. “Two hours. Or I’m leaving without you.”

Charles scoffs. “You won’t. You’d be stuck with Scott and Logan all on your own.” He leans up for a kiss which Erik obliges, pulling the Deputy closer, ever mindful of his bad leg.

The Prince makes a small sound of contentment as Erik slowly slides his hands down Charles’ sides, moving their mouths against one another slowly. Charles feels relaxed and pliant in Erik’s grip which is good, because that means he’s no longer tense with worry.

“One hour, 59 minutes.” Erik says when they break apart, and Charles laughs.

“I’ll even be early,” the Deputy says teasingly, and then slowly untangles himself from Erik’s grasp. “See you then.”

Erik lets him go, watching him until the elevator door slides shut. Normally he would have even offered to accompany Charles down to the labs—he had their first evening back on the Strontium, and although they hadn’t stayed long, those sea urchin cells had been a tiny bit interesting, or maybe that was just because Charles had spent the entire time blathering on about them, Erik couldn’t say—but right now it’s actually best for Charles to go alone.

“Raven.”

The AI flickers into view. “Yes sir.”

“Pull up the records of our previous mission.” Erik settles himself into the captain’s chair. “Compile all the video footage you have of Cain Marko.”

 

X

 

Scott tries to trip Logan on their way off the shuttle.

“Watch it, Summers.” Logan growls. He’s in a foul mood because apparently retrieving a bunch of free-floating cargo containers requires a fuck ton of careful maneuvering, which hadn’t really gone over well with the shitty controls of a shuttle—they’re not exactly built for precise flying. “I just helped save your ass by about a thousand times, so don’t fucking test me right now.”

Scott rolls his eyes. “It was your fault too, asshole.”

“Keep telling yourself that, fuckface.”

“Legionnaires Summers and Howlett.” Raven flickers into view. Goddamn AI. She’s the one who probably told on them in the first place. “The War-Prince requests that both of you report to the bridge.”

“Oh, does he,” Logan mutters.

“His exact words were ‘tell them to get the fuck up here now’ but I modified the language into a command,” Raven replies serenely, “as fits the chain of command system.”

Jesus Christ.

“Thanks for the consideration, dollface,” Logan says with a snort, “you can tell _his majesty_ that we’ll be up shortly and that he’d better not be fucking the Deputy in that throne of his when we do.”

“Understood, Legionnaire Howlett,” Raven says over the sound of Scott losing his shit completely, and the AI nearly sounds dry, Jesus. She flickers once and is gone.

It’s several moments before Scott can breathe again let alone speak, and Logan watches him wryly the entire time. “Holy shit,” Scott gasps out at last, “if she really tells him that—his _face_ —” He recesses back into laughter again, because _oh god the War-Prince’s face_ if he were to hear that.

Logan exhales a cloud of smoke slowly. “Now wouldn’t that be a sight.”

“I can’t even fucking handle that.” Scott says truthfully when he can talk again, because what the fuck, the Commander is ready to kill them already, and now Logan has probably just lined them both up for a little pain and torture first. Only live once, or some shit.

Logan smirks. “Ain’t that the truth.”

Still, looming threats of bodily violence besides, they make they their way up to the bridge. At a leisurely pace, because when you’re going to die you might as well fucking enjoy the walk. They don’t have time for one last violent fuck, more’s the pity.

The War-Prince is the only person on the bridge, which is surprising considering it’s half an hour to take-off. Some boring-as-shit patrolling mission too, most likely. Logan fucking hates those. Forget flawlessly executed flight maneuvers performed by the best Helmsman in the Fleet; patrolling is just managing to keep the ship flying straight, which even an embarrassing half-witted asshole can do. Someone like Summers, even— _that easy._

There is something running on the main screen, and Logan bites his cigar in two when he realizes it’s footage of Marko attacking Charles in a lift.

The Commander, sitting straight and focused on his captain’s chair, doesn’t even spare them a glance as the rest of the footage unfolds, and then the screen pauses before switching to different surveillance camera footage, this one of Marko alone.

“Are we making a documentary on his fucking life?” Logan asks. “I can tell you the end. I fucking skin him alive.”

“Delightful.” the Commander drawls. “Raven, freeze the video.”

The AI obeys. The War-Prince settles back in his chair, face a blank mask but eyes glittering with dangerous intelligence.

“It goes without saying the two of you are to be set straight for your inability to act professionally unless I am breathing down your necks,” he says coolly. “The manner and timing of your reprimand is yet to be decided, so feel free to writhe in suspense.”

The fucker.

“I have more pressing matters to discuss with you,” Erik continues, rising from his chair, jaw working. “My own opinions on the subject aside, Charles is convinced that between the two of you, you have half a human brain. I’ve been looking at Marko’s actions aboard this ship while you fished the cargo you dumped into space and then took twenty minutes to drag yourselves up here, and here’s what I’ve noticed. He tempered with several consoles.”

Scott nods. “I noticed. He tried to access data and files restricted to his level of clearance. I shut the fucker down, obviously.”

Erik gives him a stony look. “You didn’t think to tell me this because?”

“You saw how Charles got whenever I brought the dirtbag up.” Scott scowls. “I’m not about to put up with his puppy dog fucking eyes. Sir.”

“The fact that you two managed to graduate from the Academy boggles the mind.”

“What the fuck’s he want with our shit anyway?” Logan asks, stooping down to retrieve the other half of his abandoned cigar and stuffing it in his pocket.

“That’s a good question. More importantly, how does whatever he was looking for relate to what he did to Charles?”

Logan and Scott exchange a glance. The Helmsman folds his arms tightly over his chest, working his tongue slowly over his teeth in thought.

“You think there were more motives than Marko just being a ball-less fucking piece of shit?”

Erik gives him a dark look. “Don’t you?”

A pause. Then, reluctantly, Logan and Scott nod. They hadn’t wanted to bring it up and pile even more shit on Charles’ shoulders, but the War-Prince’s shoulders are pretty fucking broad.

“Find out what he did to those consoles and what he was looking for exactly,” Erik says quietly, eyes fixing back on the main screen. “Do it quietly. I don’t want to bother Charles with this just yet. Not until we have something concrete to give him.”

Logan and Scott nod again. Then Scott glances around quickly, arching his brows.

“So, what’s out next mission, sir?”

“I’ve not yet received orders.”

The two men are shocked. “What, so we’re just, docked until further notice? With all due respect, sir, did you fuck up a debrief and get us dock-locked? I think we should know this shit.”

If looks could kill, Scott would be six feet under right about now.

“I suppose you are unfamiliar with the concept given your obvious limitations, but if you had the ability to make leaps of judgment, you’d assume Command is still reviewing whether they will make us patrol or—”

“War-Prince,” Raven cut smoothly in, minimizing the videos in the main screen to the show the Fleet logo. “Incoming from Command. Paladin Fury requests your presence in his office post haste.”

Shit, Nicholas Motherfucking Fury, or as Logan privately likes to call him, Cyclops-of-Doom.

“You did fuck up, didn’t you?” Scott blurts.

Erik gives him a cold look. “You’re spending three days in the brig. Effective immediately after take-off.”

“Oh, _come on_ —”

“You can use that time for research,” Erik says, ignoring him entirely as he makes sure his uniform is perfectly presentable—it is, because Erik Lehnsherr is an anal bastard.

Logan smirks. Erik arches his brows.

“Don’t savor that honey just yet. You’re in charge of the recruits.”

“Oh, fuck no! That’s just psychological torture! That’s no fair punishment!”

“I don’t know what you mean. That’s not your punishment. That’s just the prologue. Enjoy it.”

He stalks to the door, and Scott and Logan have to scramble out of his way or else be trampled underfoot. Just as he reaches the bulkheads, he turns and gives them one is his creepiest smiles—all of Erik’s smiles are creepy as fuck, Jesus Christ, he should not be smiling, his face is not designed for smiling, it’s designed for tearing hind legs off unsuspecting zebras—and gives them a cool look.

“And for the record,” he says silkily, “if I were to fuck Charles on the bridge, I would not do it on the Captain’s chair. Not _only_.”

Motherfucking _bastard._

Wait. That means that Raven—

Shit.

 

X

 

Erik makes his way straight up to the top of the Oh-Bee where Fury’s office is, lost in thought the entire way. Logan and Scott are annoyances and he’ll certainly deal with them later as far as punishing them, but in the meantime he’s glad to have two extra pairs of eyes—if not brains, because they certainly don’t possess anything like that—looking at the footage of Marko.

But _damn_ Scott for not saying anything sooner about Marko tampering with consoles. Alone in an elevator shooting up through the Oh-Bee, Erik grits his teeth. The Heartsteel is his ship, and it’s the TO’s job to tell him if anyone is screwing around with the hardware. No doubt Scott meant well, not bringing it up around Charles, but the TO has had plenty of opportunity to tell Erik without the Deputy in the vicinity.

Charles was only a prisoner on an enemy ship, for fuck’s sake.

Erik steps out onto the highest deck level of the Strontium, straightening his posture even more as he walks with purpose. Headquarters is no less busy than any other deck on the Oh-Bee, save for the fact that most of the people here are within the upper rankings of the Fleet.

The path to Nick Fury’s office is well-trodden and the Paladin is waiting for him when Erik enters, sitting at his desk with one eye already trained on the door. Erik prevents himself from rolling his eyes—because come on, really?—and snaps to attention.

“At ease, Commander.” Fury sits back in his chair. “I see that when apart from Prince Xavier you are perfectly capable of arriving on time. Perhaps a reassignment would do you both some good.”

Erik shows his teeth in a smile, mostly to cover up the fact that his heart has nearly stopped. “My crew is volatile,” he answers pleasantly, “and they’re all very fond of the good Prince. I’d have a mutiny on my hands if the Heartsteel was assigned a new Deputy, sir.”

Don’t even try it, you complete dick.

Fury smirks. “That wouldn’t be my problem, would it?”

“My Technical Officer and Helmsman in particular are quite attached to Prince Xavier,” Erik says casually, “I’m sure you know them, sir. Senior Legionnaire Scott Summers and Legionnaire Logan Howlett. I can only imagine their, ah, _disappointment_.”

Fury looks at him long and hard, a silence stretching between them. Erik has no doubt that Fury knows quite a bit about Scott and Logan. They’re almost infamous within the 322nd Brigade. Hell, the Paladin probably observed them from his window recollecting all the cargo they dumped. Erik can quite clearly imagine the kind of shit they would wreck if Charles were to get reassigned, and he’s sure Fury can with even more in-depth logistics.

Not to mention that Erik himself would have a few choice things to say. He handpicked Charles as his Deputy for a reason.

Among other things.

“You’re being assigned a patrolling mission.” Fury says at length. He appears to have decided to pick his own battles, but his eye looks a little too knowing for Erik to completely relax. “Something nice and simple that even your crew won’t fuck up.”

“My mission logs would suggest otherwise, sir,” Erik returns swiftly, “my crew doesn’t fuck up assignments.”

“You are an upstart, Commander Lehnsherr,” Fury says dryly, “and god knows why, I like you. But do me a favor and shut your mouth when I’m talking to you.”

“Yes sir.” Erik says at once. What, it’s protocol.

Fury gives him a flat look, but decides not to comment further. “You’ll be patrolling the boarders over by Vulcan space. I’ve already sent the exact coordinates to your ship.”

Erik concentrates on holding himself perfectly still in order to keep from saying a word. He knew that their assignment would be dull, but the Vulcan boarder, really? That’s nearly a punishment. An undeserved one.

“The reason I called you here, though, is because I wanted to reinforce the little chat we had earlier.” Fury’s eye is piercing. “This is off the record, Commander. But it is now your primary concern to determine why Cain Marko sold your Deputy out to the Nyrulians. ‘He hates me’ is _not_ a good enough answer. I expect a report within the week.”

“Sir,” Erik answers because honestly, what does Fury take him for, “you didn’t have to tell me that.”

Fury nods once. “Dismissed.”


	4. How much you're willing to pay

As much as he’d much rather fuck off to the labs for two hours and not think of anything beyond the view in his microscope, Charles does not go down to the labs.

He feels a little guilty lying about this, because he’s pretty sure that he and Erik are in an honest-to-god relationship now, and he hears that you’re supposed to be honest with each other in those.  But he also knows that if he’d told Erik where he was really planning on going, the War-Prince would insist on accompanying him and while Charles appreciates the support, he thinks that this time it might be better if he does this alone.

That’s not to say he’s not absolutely dreading this, he thinks a little remorsefully as he takes an elevator up to the medical bay of the Strontium.  This is probably going to be the furthest thing from pleasant he’s ever done, and he’s done quite a bit of unpleasant things in the past week.

The elevator door slides open, and Charles takes a breath, steeling himself.

Charles is no War-Prince, but the rank of Prince is still enough to have everyone leaping out of his way, clearing a path for him in the otherwise busy medical bay.  Charles normally doesn’t care much for his rank other than for how it allows him to follow Erik and work directly beneath the War-Prince, but right now he’s also a little glad that, in this case at least, his rank is high enough that no one will question him.

He’s questioning himself enough at the moment, thanks.

He passes through the main terminal of the medical bay and slips through the doors that will lead him to the private rooms, where things are quieter.  He’s glad that Hank had healed most of his injuries back on the Heartsteel before their arrival on the Strontium, because private rooms or not, Charles still thinks there’s nothing worse than an Oh-Bee medical bay.

The hallway is empty, except for two Legionnaires who stand guard outside one of the doors to a private room.  Charles swallows and then walks up to them.  He doesn’t recognize either of them, which is probably better.

As soon as they see him, both of them snap to attention.

“At ease, gentlemen.” Charles comes to a stop, keeping his tone neutral.  “I’d just like to get by.”

“Apologies, Prince,” one of the Legionnaires says, and at least he actually does sound mildly apologetic, “our orders are no one gets in, sir.”

“Do you know who’s in there?” Charles asks politely.

“Yes sir.”

“Then I’m sure you’re aware of the circumstances.”

The Legionnaires exchange glances.  “Yes sir.”

“Welcome back, sir,” the second Legionnaire adds.

“Thank you.”  Charles gives them a slight smile.  “Look, I really only need ten minutes at most.  I’d really appreciate it.  I’ll take full responsibility.”

The Legionnaires exchange glances again.  Charles waits patiently.  Erik might have pulled rank and forced his way in, but Charles maintains the belief that being polite will get him just as far in these kinds of situations, and without having made any enemies.

“Ten minutes, sir,” the first Legionnaire says as they both step aside, “no longer.”

Charles offers them another smile.  “Thank you.  You have my word.”  He steps between them, entering the private hospital room, the door hissing shut behind him.

“Hello Charlie.”  He’s greeted instantly by the man in the bed, wearing that same, familiar smirk.

Charles comes to a stop, utterly still for a moment.  He feels about a thousand different things and at first he’s not even sure what to do before he settles on sighing.  Calm.  Calm.

“Hello Cain.”

 

X

 

“Look at these assholes,” Scott breathes in disbelief, “I can barely fucking stand it.”

Logan grunts in agreement as the TO rewinds the clip again.  The War-Prince pulls out his phaser and stuns Marko, who drops like a sack of bricks in the elevator where he’d been choking the life out of a slime-covered Charles—and what the _fuck_ , so that’s where the bruises around the Prince’s neck had come from.  Charles sags, panting, and stays that way until Erik steps forward and grasps him by the front of his uniform jacket with both hands, pulling the Prince back up to his feet—and then keeps holding onto him.

Those stupid _fucks_.

“I’m so glad we’ve cleared the air of all that goddamn sexual tension.” Scott says sourly.  Charles and Erik are talking now, but they don’t have the sound feed to go with the clip.  They watch again as Erik belatedly lets go of the Prince and Charles stumbles awkwardly away.  “I honestly don’t know how we were fucking able to stand it all these years.”

Logan grunts again.

Scott pauses the clip, even though the rest is useless because Marko’s unconscious.  “You’re a real goddamn treat to hold a conversation with, you know?”

Logan doesn’t answer.  He’s staring at the screen still, eyes narrowed contemplatively.

Scott considers punching him, but then decides that they’re in enough trouble already.  No need for the War-Prince to get back from his meeting with Fury and find them both on the ground trying to kill each other.  “I’m getting rid of this for now,” he announces to no one apparently, because Logan sure as hell isn’t listening, “Charles is probably going to be back soon.”

No response.

What the fuck ever.  Scott waves it away and the screen goes blank, displaying the Starfleet logo.  They’d started out watching some of the recordings Raven had of Marko but had gotten stuck on that scene in the elevator in particular.  Fucking hell, but it makes Scott want to go find the bastard and put holes in him.

Not that he didn’t already want to fucking do that, but it just encourages the feeling even more.

“Do you think he was going to stop?” Logan asks suddenly.

“What?” Scott asks, momentarily thrown because it’s about goddamn time that Logan actually uses his words, Jesus Christ.  It’s unnerving when the Helmsman is that quiet, since it means Logan is doing dangerous things like thinking or some shit.

“Marko.”  Logan gives him a look as if it’d been obvious.  Well fuck you, Scott is not a goddamn mind reader.  “Do you think he would’ve stopped choking Charles if the Commander hadn’t intervened?”

“Eventually, yeah?”  It comes out as a question, though, because now Scott is uncertain.  See, this is what happens if Logan does things like think.  It turns out being _thought-provoking_ , Jesus.  “If he was planning on throwing Charles to the Nyrulians, yeah, because they wanted him alive and shit.”

“Those were some pretty dark bruises on Charles’ neck.” Logan mutters absently, mostly to himself, and what the fuck, where is this _brooding_ suddenly coming from?

“What, you think he would’ve gone all the way?” Scott asks, a little incredulous.  “Fucking just choke the life out of him?”

“He held on a little too long for it to just be a joke,” Logan says flatly, turning his narrowed eyes towards Scott, “a few more seconds and Charles would’ve passed out.”

Jesus.  “The fucker is insane,” Scott says anyway, because damn it, they already knew that, “and the Commander wants us to find something more solid than ‘Marko hates Charles enough to sell him out’ or were you not actually here for that fucking conversation?”

“I know that.” Logan snaps.  “Aren’t you supposed to be figuring out what Marko was doing at the damn consoles?”

“Plenty of time for that in the brig.” Scott says, a little gloomily.  If it’d been anyone else, he’d be holding out hope that by the time they take off, it’d be forgotten.  But this is War-Prince Erik Goddamned Lehnsherr, so the fucker probably has it imprinted on his brain or some shit.

Logan snorts, smirking.  “Oh right.”

“I don’t see why you weren’t included,” Scott complains, “you were the fucking douchebag who said that shit about fucking Charles on the bridge and stuff.”

“I’ve got the fucking plebes.” Logan says, sounding just as gloomy as Scott feels.  “That’s even worse.”

It’s Scott’s turn to snort.  “Oh _yeah_.  You should throw Alex out of a fucking airlock or something.  Do us all a favor.”

“I should fucking throw _you_ out of an airlock or something, and do the whole goddamn universe a favor.”

Scott leaps at him.

 

X

 

“Didn’t think you’d come see me,” Cain says, still wearing his sickening smirk, “so this is a pleasant surprise.”

“I’m not here to socialize.” Charles says flatly. 

He steps further into the room, moving closer to the bed.  It’s clear that the doctors have already been at work, as most of Cain’s injuries are well on their way to being healed.  He still has several ugly bruises, and his nose is definitely crooked—Erik hits hard.

Charles isn’t sure what he expected himself to feel upon seeing his stepbrother’s injuries inflicted by Erik, but it turns out that all he feels is numb.

There’s a chair somewhat close to the bed, so Charles sits on the edge of the seat with his back straight, face composed into what he hopes is a neutral expression half as good as Erik’s.  “Why’d you do it?”

Cain laughs, and the sound surprises Charles with the spike of _hatred_ that he feels running through his gut upon hearing it.  “Because I was bored and it seemed like it’d be fun.”

Charles inhales one long, slow breath.  Calm.  “Don’t be childish.”

“I hear that you got rescued by a bounty hunter, is that true?” Cain asks instead of answering, eyes glittering.  “How much did Starfleet pay for you?  What’s your worth?”

“Why are you working with Nyrulians?” Charles asks through gritted teeth.

Cain’s smirk hasn’t faded, but he suddenly grows deadly serious.  “Because it’s _all_ about worth, Charlie.  Didn’t your father ever explain that to you before he kicked the bucket?  Everything comes down to price, and how much you’re willing to pay.”

Charles ignores the jab about his father.  “And what are you paying for, Cain?”

His stepbrother’s smirk only widens.  “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Why’d you sell me out?” Charles asks instead, because there’s something about what Paladin Fury said that’s been bothering him.

“Because it was easy.”

“No,” Charles says, and this he’s sure of, “there’s more to it than just that, isn’t there?”

Cain scoffs.  “Don’t flatter yourself, you’re not that special.”

Charles looks at him for a long moment, gaging him silently.  “You’re lying.”

Cain shrugs.  “Maybe I am, maybe I’m not.”  His eyes narrow.  “You think you’re so damn clever, don’t you, making it back alive.  What a _hero_ they must think you are.”

Charles hardly dares to breathe.  “No.  I just had a lot of luck.”

Cain snorts.  “Sheer _dumb_ luck.”

“You must be disappointed.”

Cain smirks again, and this time his leering eyes sort of make Charles’ skin crawl.  “Hardly.”  He lunges forward suddenly, moving with a speed Charles hadn’t known him to ever possess, sitting up and reaching over to grab Charles by the front of his uniform jacket and dragging him close so that they’re nearly eye-to-eye.

Charles gives a startled yelp, balancing awkwardly as Cain fists his hand in his jacket, half-pulled over the bed.  “Let go of me.”  He tries to pull away but Cain just gives him a yank.  “Now.  I mean it, Cain.  I’ll call—”

“Call your guards, Charlie,” Cain says softly, his voice a low murmur as he stares directly into Charles’ eyes, “but know this.  They’ll come back for you.  They hate unfinished business.  You’re a loose end that they’ll want to tie up, make no mistake.”

“Are you mad?” Charles breathes.

“They will come for you,” Cain continues, giving a slow, nasty smile that makes the hair on the back of Charles’ neck stand on end, “and when they find you, they’ll make sure not to let you slip so easily from their grasp again.  You won’t make it out alive, dear brother.”

“You’re lying.” Charles says, and hates himself a little as his voice wavers.

Cain chuckles, his breath a sour brush of air against Charles’ face.  “Hard to say for sure, isn’t it?”

“The only Nyrulians who knew I was their captive are dead,” Charles says, for lack of anything better, “we blew up their ship.”

“You think it was just them?”  Cain outright laughs at him, and Charles resists the urge to shudder.  “Or do you think your name is being circulated through every ship in their fleet right now because they were all expecting you as a guest on their home planet?”

Charles can only stare at him, eyes wide.  Cain is completely mental.

He _has_ to be.

Before he can say anything else, the door to the room slides open behind him.  “It’s been ten minutes now, sir— _hey_!”

Charles keeps staring at Cain, even as the two Legionnaires pull him away and shove Cain roughly back down onto the bed.  His stepbrother keeps his smirk, eyes glinting knowingly and following Charles all the way out of the room as the Legionnaires guide him back out into the hallway.

“Good seeing you, Charlie,” Cain calls mockingly just before the door slides shut again, “just keep in mind what I said.  I _do_ worry about you.”  Then he’s gone from view.

“Are you alright, sir?”  Both of the Legionnaires are looking at him worriedly.

Charles blinks.  “Ah—yes.  My apologies.  Stepbrothers.  Can’t hold a conversation without getting in each other’s faces.”  He smiles weakly even though he’s fairly certain he’s not being very convincing.  “Thank you, gentlemen, have a good day.”

He barely waits for their response, turning and heading back down the hall.  He makes it all the way through the medical bay and down three decks on an elevator, nodding politely to everyone he passes.

Then Charles ducks into the nearest empty storage hold that he can find, and as soon as the door slides shut he sinks down against the wall, shaking.

 

X

 

Charles is speaking.

Erik knows he is because he can see his mouth moving, and his hands gesturing, as the Prince paces slowly, walking the distance between Erik’s desk, where Erik sits cross-legged leaning his chin on his hand, and the great window in the far wall that opens to the star-studded sky.

Charles is speaking, but what exactly he is saying escapes Erik.  Whatever it is spilling from his lips, it’s not what is truly taking up most of Charles’ mind.

Erik can tell, because when Charles is agitated and trying to hide it, he starts babbling about things he knows put Erik to sleep faster than tranquilizers.  At least, the War-Prince figures, he’s abandoned the subject of sea urchins’ sexual habits.  Scintillating as it was, Erik is very certain he can do without that knowledge.

The question, then, is what has troubled Charles, and why he is trying—and failing, because let no one ever say Charles Xavier has a talent for deceit—to conceal his anxiety.

But Erik does what he does best; he waits, quietly and patiently, for Charles to run himself to the ground.  These things always work thus: something will happen that will unsettle Charles.  He will then convince himself there is no reason to bring his problems to Erik, whom he is certain is always _so very busy_ and otherwise occupied to deal with his petty little issues.  Erik is never too busy for Charles, but any attempts past or present to persuade the Prince of this have wound up in blushes and stammering that are as adorable as they are frustrating.  Erik will seek Charles out, because Erik is not an idiot, and he can tell when his best-friend-now-lover is anxious.  Presently Charles will attempt to divert Erik’s attention by presenting a long rant of perfectly inconsequential subjects in an effort to discourage the War-Princes’ attention; trusting perhaps that if he talks long enough about obscure enough shit that Erik has zero interest in, the Commander will give up and leave.

This technique, long-suffered and well-tried, has never once proved successful.

Not that it keeps Charles from trying anyway.

So Erik sits, cross-legged and leaning his chin in his hand, at his desk, and lets Charles run himself in circles and talk himself into twists and coils and exhaust his breath.  Erik will, as always, be there to pick up the pieces.

Finally Charles stops by the window, jaw working as he clenches his teeth, seemingly caught mid-thought, attention snagged by a random star.

Erik waits for a moment; when no more babble is forthcoming, he straightens in his chair and stands, pacing slowly to where Charles stands.  He doesn’t touch him; Charles doesn’t always welcome touch when he is this troubled, though later he will crave it.  Erik knows him well enough to give him what he needs when he needs it, and what he wants when they can afford it.

“To be perfectly honest, I thought we were past this,” he says, his tone as firm as it is gentle. “I would expect you to come to me openly with whatever it is that’s eating at you now, Charles.”

The Prince swallows, eyes fixed far away, as if past the stars and nebulas and the distance of space he could see a solution, as yet impossible to grasp, to whatever is twisting his mind.

“I don’t suppose you’ll believe me if I say I’m just concerned about the urchins.”

“Only if you believe me when I say I deeply regret and feel terribly sorry about having shot your stepbrother.”

Charles’ lips quirk.  He doesn’t want to condone any sort of violence, but of course the point Erik makes is hard to argue.

But he says nothing, and the silence grates on Erik.  It is not one of their comfortable, companionable silences, but rather a tense one, charged with things Charles won’t say.  Erik hates secrets—when they’re kept from him anyway, he’s fine with keeping them himself.  No, he does not mind the double standard, thank you.

Erik can’t force Charles to talk; not without being a bully and threatening the special trust building slowly between them.  They’re still transitioning between one relationship to the other, cementing their physical connection, and Erik is loath to disturb it by demanding confessions.

He knows eventually Charles will tell him what’s on his mind; if it were urgent he would have told him already, in fact, so Erik knows it can probably wait.  Instead of insisting, he reaches out and brings Charles close, tucking him against his front and leaning his chin on the top of the Prince’s head.

Charles sighs and sags against him, relaxing slowly.  Erik strokes his hand absently down his back, staring at the stars and turning matter over in his mind.  Charles shifts so his face is pressed against the side of Erik’s neck, breath warm and even.  The War-Prince inhales deeply, enjoying Charles’ scent, which has become a familiar comfort.

He shifts slightly, sliding his nose down to Charles’ temple and tilting his head to press his lips to the Prince’s cheekbone, grasping his shoulders.  Charles’ hands migrate to his hips, and he presses closer to Erik. Tilting his head up for a kiss, gasping when Erik obliges him, Charles arches his back, pressing flush against Erik’s front.

The War-Prince groans.  Whatever is bothering Charles clearly needs competition, and Erik is more than willing to be a timely distraction.  

He pushes Charles to the bedroom.  He would have taken his time, but Charles seems suddenly incensed, as if a fire has been lit in him, eyes bright, lips stained dark and hands that never stay still.  A stronger man might have struggled to slow him down, but Erik is at his mercy.  They nearly tear each other’s clothes off, groaning against each other’s mouths until they make it to the bed.

In nearly no time Erik has Charles on his stomach.  He is so hard he aches, and his memory of the last time he had gotten aroused just this quickly is something dim and vague from his teenage years.  The things Charles does to him, Jesus.

The Prince is writhing and gasping breathlessly, but Erik will not be bullied into foregoing preparation.  He does, however, dispense with the teasing he knows Charles simultaneously hates and loves, because he knows neither of them can handle that at the moment.

Charles pushes to his knees, and then falls back down when Erik stretches out on top of him, chest to back, so close he knows he’s crushing Charles to the bed and not caring.  Charles gasps, back arching sinfully beneath Erik, when the War-Prince thrusts inside him in one smooth, fluid motion.  Erik’s elbows are on the bed, above Charles’ shoulders, and his lips against Charles’ mouth as the Prince twists his neck to meet him.  Charles craves a lot of things, but this—this closeness, whenever Erik keeps him close whether Charles wants it or not, makes it physically impossible for the Prince to leave him—these are the times Charles is at his most glorious.  Stripped of doubts and insecurities and disbelief, Charles is nothing but a conglomerate of brilliant, blinding beauty.

It doesn’t last long, but Erik is unconcerned.  They have plenty of time to do it again, and next time—next time he’ll take his time to pull Charles apart, piece by piece, and watch.

Presently he simply lies, boneless and overheated, breathing heavily in Charles’ ear, until Charles shifts slightly.  Erik lets himself fall to the side, rubbing a hand roughly over his face to shake off the last of the daze.  He has to go back to the bridge soon, so as much as he likes to sleep after sex, that’ll have to wait.  For now he is content to lie on his side, one leg thrown over Charles’, his right hand resting gently on the small of his lover’s back.

Charles rests up on his left elbow, pushing his right hand harshly through his hair, damp and tangled with sweat.  He twists a little to press his forehead to the side of Erik’s throat, exposed as he is lying on his side. Erik hums, stroking the Prince’s flank idly.  Charles shivers.

Finally he pulls away, sighing.

“Have you ever thought this is more complicated than it’s worth?”

Erik sets his jaw hard and does not lash out with the immediate response—anger at the suggestion, irritation at Charles’ insecurities, and the desperate need to soothe the smaller man.  When he gets like this, Charles needs cold logic, not sex-fueled declaration of undying love.

One day, Erik is going to put a phaser beam through Kurt Marko’s head, just like he did—

Erik’s eyes narrow.

“Did you run into an imprisoned criminal on your way to the labs?” he asks quietly.

Charles stiffens.

Erik makes himself stay on the bed, loose and relaxed.  If he sits up and frowns like he wants to, Charles will just pull away and stammer an excuse and an apology, when what Erik wants is an explanation.

“You know better than to believe whatever bullshit he fed you,” he says evenly, consciously keeping his hand relaxed on Charles’ back.

Charles swallows and nods, but he is frowning, turning something over in that brilliant head of his.  Oftentimes Erik wishes he could crack it open and look at its gears until he understand exactly how it functions.  As it is he’s stuck waiting for Charles to be able to articulate his concerns.

Charles opens his mouth, eyes darting quickly to Erik’s before fleeing away to his hands, and Erik knows he is going to say it now—

A soft chime and Raven’s voice.

“Commander Lehnsherr, you are required on the bridge.”

_Damn it._

 

X

 

Logan has Scott nice and pinned on the deck of the bridge, sitting on top of the TO and holding his arms trapped against his sides, both of them sweaty and panting from their scuffle, when the elevator door to the bridge hisses open and the War-Prince and Prince emerge.

Of fucking course they do.

“Er, hello gentlemen.” Charles says into the momentary silence.

“Howdy, Deputy,” Scott says cheerfully from beneath Logan, even as Logan feels the TO continuing to strain against Logan’s grasp, “hello, sir.”

“Get off the floor,” the War-Prince says, “now.”

What the fuck, either that meeting with Fury was extra shitty or Charles just went cold fish on him or something because really, there is no other explanation for that tone of voice, Jesus.  Logan’s betting on the former rather than the latter, though, because both of them look freshly showered and there’s no fucking way _that’s_ just a coincidence.  Logan pushes himself off of Scott and up to his feet, leaving the TO to scramble up after him, and together they both snap to attention.

“Prepare the ship for takeoff,” Erik says, stepping past them without sparing them a further glance, “we’re cleared for departure.”

“Yes sir,” Scott says at once, falling out and moving towards his station.  He’s got a shit ton of things to check before they actually lift off.

Logan relaxes as well, but he eyes Charles speculatively.  The Deputy looks worn, which is odd considering the fact that when Logan had last seen him a couple hours ago, he’d been looking bright-eyed and chipper, which is annoying as fuck but is generally the Prince’s natural state.  It’s something about Charles that’s sort of grown on Logan over the years, fuck his life, so somehow it’s become something that Logan keeps an eye on because damn it, _someone_ should be cheerful around here.

And it’s _Charles_.  As if Logan needs any other reason than that.

“Everything alright, Logan?” Charles asks him because oh shit, he’s still staring, isn’t he?

“Damn straight, sir.” Logan scoffs, turning around to head over to his station beside Scott.  Might as well check his shit too.

He runs through the engine checks, all the while keeping half an eye on his two commanders.

The thing about Charles and Erik, irritatingly enough, is that as much as Logan and Scott both like to loudly complain about how _disgustingly mushy_ the War-Prince and Prince are towards each other now that they’ve both finally pulled their heads out of their asses, nothing at all has really changed with how Charles and Erik act while in front of them and the rest of the crew.

There’s still the fucking obvious lingering glances when they think the other isn’t looking—maybe a tad bit more on Erik’s part now that he’s figured out how to act like a goddamn human being with real goddamn emotions—and it’s pretty clear that Charles is still ready to ask _how high_ the second Erik says _jump_.  But that’s nothing new from how it’s always fucking been, so Logan almost feels cheated in the fact that he can’t even be annoyed at them for being—for being so—

“All crew members in their stations, sir,” Charles reports, perfectly professional in every way and Jesus Christ Logan could throttle him for it, “all personnel ready for departure.”

“All systems go, sir,” Scott adds, his screen flickering, “we’re set and ready.”

Erik gives Charles a nod, settling back in his chair.  “Raven, send the Helmsman our coordinates.  At your leisure, Howlett.”

“Yes sir.” Raven says.

Logan resists the urge to snort.  _Leisure_ meaning _right the fuck now_.  Then he sees the coordinates that Raven has forwarded.  “Is this for fucking real?  Sir?”

“Let me see.”  Scott leans over.  “What the fuck!  Sir.”

The Commander looks like he wants to sigh.  “We’re being sent to the Vulcan borders.  Yes, I am well aware that this is not an ideal assignment but the fact remains that it is our current mission so I expect both of you to keep your mouths shut and get on with it.”

“They fucked up the debriefing,” Scott mutters to Logan, and then announces in a louder voice, “gangway clear.  Detaching from the docking bay, sir.”

Logan guides the thrusters carefully.  “Minimum distance for hyperspace in thirty seconds, sir.”  Fucked it up big time, if they’re being sent to the Vulcan borders.  There’s absolutely nothing to do there, seeing as it’s neutral ground.  It’s a goddamn joke to send a ship like the Heartsteel there.

“As soon as we’re clear, Howlett.”  The War-Prince intones.  He sounds like he’s bored, but Logan knows better than that—the bastard is probably watching every single readout like a hawk.

Logan spares a glance for Charles.  The Prince still looks a little off, somehow, but finally, _finally_ Logan’s caught him in the act of sharing a long, slow glance with the War-Prince, and the Helmsman actually has to look away again because of all the sheer, raw emotion somehow contained in that tiny shared look.

He realizes that he and Scott were wrong.  They’d been expecting Charles and Erik to be just as loud and messy as they are, especially with the whole been-in-love-with-each-other-for-years shitstorm.  But Charles and Erik are subtler than that, far more so than he and Scott could ever bother to be.  Logan glances sideways at the TO, and resists the urge to punch him in the arm.

The Prince and War-Prince are probably much gentler, too.  Logan isn’t going to forget Erik hovering over Charles’ unconscious form in the Heartsteel’s medical bay after the Prince had first been rescued, at any rate.  Fucking undying dedication, that’s what that is.  He’d been holding the Prince’s hand so carefully, as if he’d been afraid it would break.

Logan can’t stomach that kind of shit, really.  He’ll take whatever the fuck it is he’s got with Scott over that any day, because he knows for a fact that neither of them is suitable for the kind of wordless understanding that Charles and Erik have had down since day fucking one—he and Scott do a lot of wordless communication with their fists, which is close enough, goddamn it.  It still gets the point across. 

Charles and Erik can keep their affairs quiet and strictly between each other—what the fuck ever, good for them—because Logan’s never seen two people so goddamn made for each other it isn’t even remotely funny.

“Inputting the coordinates, sir.” Logan announces.  The Heartsteel’s engines are humming with power, a low, familiar vibration that feels liberating—it’s about goddamn time they fucked off from the Oh-Bee.  “Maximum burn in three.  Two.  One.”

“It’s a pity, though,” Charles remarks absently as the bridge’s view of space outside goes white, “that we weren’t assigned a research mission.”

Logan snorts at Erik’s sudden fit of coughing.


	5. I've got you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for deaths. Lots of them. But not in the manner you may first think.

Tentacles, long and thick, are reaching towards him out of the blackness, and he’s panting, breath coming in short, painful gasps as he nearly hyperventilates in terror, his mind a jumbled mix of confused and disorientated thoughts as he presses back against cold steel, and there is nowhere for him to go as something massive shifts in the darkness, the tentacles getting closer and closer and—

“No!” Charles jolts awake with a ragged gasp, his eyes flying open as he lurches upright, a voice so deep he can feel it in his bones echoing in his ears.

It takes him a moment to figure out where he is, because the effects of the nightmare seem to have left him dislocated from reality, and he panics— _he doesn’t know where he is_ —until he realizes that he’s safe in Erik’s room, in Erik’s bed, because he hasn’t returned to his own quarters since being rescued.

Rescued from monsters that lurk in the dark and have tentacles four times thicker than he is.

He’s panting, very real fear still burning through him like a livewire, startlingly sharp considering it was only a dream.  He suddenly registers that the lights in the bedroom are on, only on a dimmed setting, and Charles looks over quickly.

Erik’s sitting up as well, sheets pooling around his waist as he studies Charles carefully with his keen gaze, rubbing the edge of his jaw absently with the back of one hand.  “Charles,” he says, his voice low and calm, edging on cautious, as if he’s not sure whether he’ll startle the Prince or not.

“I’m sorry,” is the first thing that comes out of Charles’ mouth automatically, mostly due to his mortification, “I didn’t mean to wake you.”  Oh god, he was probably thrashing about in his sleep.

“No,” Erik agrees carefully, still studying Charles intently even as he keeps his voice idle, “but it’s fine, Charles.”  He drops his hand down to his lap.

Charles frowns.  “What happened to your face?  Did I—?”

“I tried to wake you and was punched for my efforts.” Erik interrupts him, a tad dry.  He grows serious again.  “It’s _fine_ , Charles.”

Charles’ breathing has slowed somewhat, but his heart still feels like it’s running a mile a minute.  He chokes out a noise that can only loosely be categorized as a laugh.  “No it isn’t.”  It’s not, because he still has roiling fear turning over in his stomach over what Cain said to him back at the Oh-Bee, backed by a staggeringly proportionate ball of guilt that sits like a lead ball on top for not telling Erik.

Both have been eating away at him for the better part of a day now.

It’d taken them six hours in hyperspace to reach their coordinates on the Vulcan borders, so they’d lost roughly a day and a half in real time.  The Vulcan borders were, as predicted, quiet and empty, so Erik had taken the ship through a few drills out of habit before telling Raven to initialize the autopilot and ordering the bridge crew to start a watch shift in lieu of anything actually interesting happening.  Charles and Erik had gone down to the mess for dinner, and then back up to Erik’s private quarters for rest.

Erik hasn’t pushed Charles for any more answers, even though it’s clear that Erik knows something is bothering him.  Charles finds that Erik’s endless patience for him is rather stunning; especially given how short-tempered the War-Prince is when it comes to Logan and Scott.  Erik is so good to him, Charles realizes, and he barely deserves it.

Slowly, steadily, Erik reaches over to him, sliding his fingers gently up his arm to his shoulder.  Charles shivers a little at the feather-light touch, but it makes him realize how tense his entire body is.  Erik is still watching him, eyes calm and so unassuming—expecting nothing from him, offering only silent support even though Charles still hasn’t told him a thing—that Charles can’t bear it.

“I didn’t go to the labs,” he blurts out, cringing a little, “I only went and saw Cain.”

Erik’s smooth expression doesn’t change, and his eyes flicker only briefly.  He takes in a breath, letting it out slowly.  “You shouldn’t have had to go by yourself,” is what he says eventually, giving Charles’ shoulder a small squeeze.

“I would have thought you wouldn’t want me to go at all.” Charles admits.

“I wouldn’t have,” Erik assures him matter-of-factly, “but I wouldn’t have stopped you.”  He pauses, adding gently, “I would have gone with you.”

Charles swallows.  “I thought it’d be better if I went by myself.  I figured he’d be more likely to talk to me if I was alone.”  He swallows again.  “And that’s when he—when he said—”  He breaks off wordlessly, shaking his head and hating himself a little for how easily Cain was able to take him apart.

Erik waits patiently, his thumb making slow circles across Charles’ skin on his shoulder.  Charles is grateful that the War-Prince isn’t insisting.

He gathers himself.  “He said that the Nyrulians are going to hunt me down and kill me.”  Even as he says it, he knows how outlandish it sounds.  He is one human out of billions, and a rather insignificant one in the grand scheme of things.  The entire Nyrulian race can’t possibly be out to get him.

Cain _has_ to be lying.  And yet…

“You blew up their ship, Charles.” Erik says, sounding very intent now.  How like Erik, to fight fear with cold, methodic logic. “There weren’t any survivors.”

“That’s what I said.”  Charles answers dully.  “Cain said that the whole Nyrulian fleet was expecting me.”

For the first time, Erik’s expression changes, and he gives a small frown.  “You can’t believe anything that traitor says. He knows how to get under your skin, so that’s what he’s aiming to do.”

“Well,” Charles replies with a self-deprecating laugh, “he’ll be pleased to know it worked, then.”

Erik shifts.  “Come here, Charles.”

Charles goes willingly, allowing Erik to pull him forward, and together they lie down, shifting under the sheets until they’re both lying on their sides facing one another, pressed close.  This close, Erik’s body practically radiates heat, and as the War-Prince wraps both his arms around him Charles shivers, suddenly feeling very warm and safe in the cold of space.

“You are better than Cain Marko will ever be,” Erik says, calm and quiet, “in both character and honor.”  He pauses to allow that to sink in, before continuing mildly, “I thought I had you convinced of this, but the moment he stepped back into your life, he undid all my hard work.  What to do.”

Despite himself, Charles cracks a tiny smile.  “I’m trying.”  His head is resting on Erik’s bicep like a pillow, and as Erik holds him, he can feel his entire body slowly starting to relax.

“I know you are,” Erik concedes with a small nod, “but you can’t take anything he says for fact.  His opinions are less than worthless, especially when they concern you.  As for the Nyrulians—”

“I know it sounds ridiculous,” Charles interrupts quickly, “but I can’t help but think, what if he’s actually—”

“If the Nyrulians want you,” Erik overrides him calmly, “they can try to come and take you away from me again.”

Charles laughs at that, burying his face in Erik’s neck and shoulder to inhale the War-Prince’s scent.  Coming from anyone else, that would sound like a brazen promise full of hot air, but from Erik it sounds like nothing but fact. “Well.  If that’s the case.”

“It is.” Erik replies dryly.

“I believe it.” Charles murmurs, placing a small kiss at the base of Erik’s throat before pulling back again to look up at the War-Prince.  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

“I was never angry, Charles.” Erik tells him gently, his hands on Charles’ back tracing idle patterns across the Prince’s skin.  “You don’t always have to tell me everything.  But you should know that you always can.”

Charles feels the last of his guilt dissolve away; the uncomfortable, bothered feeling he’s had since they left the Oh-Bee finally disappearing as even his fears are tempered back and tamped down for the time being.  He suddenly slumps bonelessly in Erik’s grasp—the War-Prince even gives a small chuckle at how Charles’ body nearly melts in his arms.

“I don’t know how I deserve you.” Charles admits after a comfortable silence passes, where they just lie still and breathe together.

“It’s not something that’s deserved,” Erik responds, in his pragmatic way that Charles loves about him along with everything else, “it’s something that _is_.”

Charles tilts his head up to kiss him, sliding one leg up over Erik’s hips as the War-Prince kisses him unhurriedly, closing his eyes and groaning when Erik rolls his hips forward slowly, grinding their bodies together in a long, heated drag.  Charles has never believed it himself, but there are races in the galaxy that believe in true soul mates, two individuals so tightly bound together that they’re said to nearly be one, and in this moment, Charles can believe that Erik is as close as he could ever get to something like that.

Erik fucks him like this, as they lie pressed close together on their sides, and whereas their last lovemaking session had been about speed and quick release, this time everything is slow and heated, their bodies moving languidly against one another.  They hold eye contact, unable to look away from each other even when Erik slides in and Charles feels himself stretched and filled, his mouth falling open slightly when he forgets for a moment how to breathe.  Charles feels like he is on a slow burn with fire beneath his skin, slick with sweat as Erik thrusts, measured and deliberate, never speeding up as they let the heat build between them, teetering on the edge together and Charles’ heart hurts at the raw feeling of this, because it’s almost too much.

More heat builds within him gradually as Erik moves slowly against him with a slick drag of sticky skin, and when Charles shakes apart it’s with Erik’s name as a sigh on his lips, shuddering when Erik comes a moment later inside him with an answering whisper of Charles’ name, both of them wrecked and breathing heavily as if they’ve run miles.  Charles tips his head forward again to rest his forehead against Erik’s shoulder to hide his face, shivering in the aftershocks of release.

“Erik,” he says again, the name coming out as a plea, and even his voice sounds raw as he breathes Erik in again because their universes have narrowed down to just the two of them together, wrapped around each other so closely that right now Erik is all Charles knows.

“I’m here,” Erik answers quietly, burying his nose in Charles’ hair, “I’m always here.  I’ve got you.”

And for now, this is enough.

 

X

 

Scott’s going to end up blowing his brains out at this rate, and maybe take half of the bridge crew with him, because he can’t stand this shit any longer.

“Raven, let me the fuck out.”

“Apologies, Legionnaire Summers,” Raven replies calmly, “the Commander specified that you are to remain in the brig for three days and as of right now it has only been one point thirty-four days.”

“Oh come on,” Scott says, complaining loudly to the ceiling of his holding cell and oh shit, he probably looks like a lunatic or something, he’s talking to thin air for fuck’s sake, “tell him I’ve been over the damn security vids a million fucking times now, and there is nothing.  Marko just fucking lurks around, tries and fails to hack some shit, and man, I don’t even know what the hell he was trying because his programming sucked—”

The force field keeping him contained suddenly blinks out of existence.  “Get up to the bridge, Scott,” the Deputy’s voice says from the intercom instead of Raven, “and for the love of god, stop complaining.”

“Why is he letting me out early?” Scott demands at once.  He steps out of the boundary of the force field though, just in case.

Charles sighs.  “Because I asked him to. You’re welcome.”

Whoa, Jesus Christ, no need for the _snark_.  “Did he tell you to say that? Sir.”

Scott can very clearly picture the Prince’s rueful look. “He, um.  Might have.”

The TO snorts. “Tell him that I—”

“I’m not going to be the messenger between the two of you,” Charles says quickly, “so just get up to bridge, please.  And you might want to get there before we do.”

“Wait,” Scott says, “you’re not already there?  Holy shit, you’re calling me from Erik’s room aren’t—”

“Get up to the bridge,” Erik’s voice cuts in abruptly, “now.”  There is an audible crack in the audio as the War-Prince cuts the connection.

“Jesus.” Scott mutters, but needless to say he gets his ass up to the bridge in record time.

Logan is chomping on an unlit cigar with unusual vigor when Scott rolls out of the elevator onto the bridge, looking like he wants to grow claws and kill something.  Scott hopes he picks Alex.  That would be cool.

“Who the fuck let you out?” Logan growls when Scott throws himself down into his chair.

“Mom and Dad.”  He ducks when Logan swings at him.  “How are the plebes?”

“Do not,” Logan says flatly, “talk to me about them.”

Damn.

“Why the hell is everyone here?” Scott asks instead, looking around the bridge.  Everyone is at their station, running their checks.  “I thought we were in like chill-out mode or some shit because this mission is such a _joke_.”

“Do I look like the fucking Commander?” Logan snaps, and Scott holds up his hands because whatever, Jesus.

The elevator door opens, and the Commander steps out with the Deputy at his side.  Scott squints at them but Charles must be taking lessons in being an Unreadable Dickhead—he’d certainly be learning from the best—or something because the Prince’s face is calm and smooth, which is a far cry from the last time Scott had seen him, when he’d looked stressed the fuck out for no apparent reason.

The War-Prince gaze sweeps over the bridge once.  “Typical,” he says with a light sigh as he crosses over to sit in the captain’s chair.

“What?” Scott demands before he can stop himself.  It’s a problem.

“You’re not panicking,” Erik replies absently, more concerned with straightening his uniform jacket and what the fuck, if this is the Commander with a sense of humor than Scott needs to find the damn receipt pronto and return that shit because this is actually scary.

“Panicking?” he asks incredulously, looking around the bridge because maybe there’s a clue as to what the hell is going on somewhere.  Everyone else looks just as confused as he is, except for Charles, who’s moved over to his station, eyebrows raised slightly, but otherwise he’s about as helpful as one of his goddamn sea urchins.  “What the—”

The elevator door opens, and suddenly the bridge is being swarmed.  Scott barely has time to give a shout of surprise before suddenly he has a goddamn sword in his face, what the _fuck_?  And it’s being held by—whoa, she’s hot.

“Don’t move,” she advises him coolly, “if you value your face.”

Scott values his face a little bit—whatever, girlfriend, should’ve said life, it would’ve been more intimidating—so he moves his eyes around instead.  All members of the Heartsteel’s bridge crew are facing down various blades, frozen in shock.  Even Charles stands very still as a chick with white hair is practically running him through, his eyes on the War-Prince.

The Commander is the only one who does not look alarmed in any way—the fucker almost looks bored, leaning back in his chair and looking up at the hottest piece Scott is sure he’s ever seen in his entire life.

“The Heartsteel is mine,” she announces coolly, her sword tip at the War-Prince’s throat, and what the fuck, that thing looks like it’s made out of ice, “and the first thing I want is for her pathetic crew to be ejected from her bowels immediately.”

“Really,” the War-Prince drawls, “must you be so dramatic.”  He draws his phaser, which seriously, about damn time.

Scott doesn’t think, he just reacts, pulling out his own phaser and aiming it at the redheaded chick who’s got her sword in his face.  Everyone else has drawn their phasers as well, so now it’s phaser against sword—seriously, who the hell still uses swords?—and Scott grins with all his teeth because he likes these odds.  Even Charles has drawn at the War-Prince’s cue, except instead of aiming where he’s supposed to at the girl holding a blade up to his throat, he’s aiming at the crazy bitch who has her icicle blade at the War-Prince’s throat.

Hopeless.  Goddamn.

“It appears we’ve reached a stalemate,” Erik observes dryly, “how inconvenient.”

Crazy Bitch scoffs, tossing her hair.  Scott is impressed despite the fact that she is the one leading the goddamn hostile takeover.  “Don’t be gauche.  Your crew is worthless.  We were able to make our way up to your bridge completely unchallenged—something I would not allow on _my_ ship.”

“Has it occurred to you yet,” the War-Prince answers, still dry, “that I told Raven to let you?”

Wait.

What the _fuck_.

Crazy Bitch smirks, and then sheathes her fucking ice shard.  All the other women sheath their blades at once too, straightening from their offensive poses into more neutral ones.  “You haven’t changed a bit.”

“Neither have you,” the War-Prince says, rolling his eyes as he rises to his feet, slipping his phaser back onto his belt.  He suddenly addresses the bridge, voice sharp.  “Show some respect.  You’re looking at Grand Duchess Emma Frost of the 193rd Brigade of the Second Earth Fleet.”

Holy.  Shit.

 

X

 

“I am sorely unimpressed,” Grand Duchess Frost announces as she lowers herself regally to one of the chairs in Erik’s off-bridge private office.  Erik is sitting in his own chair, looking as cool as any rock in space, and Charles stands, of course, at his right shoulder.  “This ship is rumored to be something unheard of, but it looks perfectly boring to me.”

“Some of us, you might be shocked to hear, believe in subtlety.”

“Learning new words, Erik?  I’m so proud of you.”

“I appreciate it, since I care so much about your opinion,” Erik smiles, placid and cold, as he does when he is about to shoot someone in the face.  Charles wonders if he is going to need to step between them; it looks like something deadly is brewing in the scant meter between their chairs.

“In that case I should say you security measures are deplorable.”

Erik’s smile remains as sharp as Frost’s saber.  A _saber_ , good lord, who carries a saber around in the space era?  “Raven, run the audiofile.”

A soft chime, “Running audiofile 26143749-WP-05.7.”  A moment of silence, and then Raven’s voice again.  “ _Commander, the SEF Silvercomet is within hailing distance and currently attempting to hack into my systems to gain access to the hangar.  I believe they are trying to board us_.”

Another moment of silence.  Charles recognizes that is the bit where he’d squeaked ‘what!?’ in a very unmanly fashion and is immensely grateful that it’s been edited out.

Then Erik’s voice, bored and flat.  “ _Sounds like Frost.  Let them swarm in; it’ll be good for her ego.  I live to make other people’s self-esteem big enough to match their hair-dos_.”

The Grand Duchess smiles.  “Oh, thank you for noticing my hair.  I do love a man that pays attention to detail.”

“I’m all about details,” Erik nods amiably.  “Like for example the fact you illegally tried to gain access to my mainframe.  That is, oh, what is the penalty again, Raven?”

One year of ground planet-side work, thinks Charles automatically, and knows for a fact Erik knows that perfectly well, because Erik has insane memory for such things. 

Raven starts speaking, but Frost waves a hand, crossing her legs and leaning back in her chair.  She looked every inch a queen, and knows it.  Her own second-in-command, a fiery red-haired woman of straight and elegant posture, has hung back by the door, unobtrusive but attentive.

“So to what _do_ we owe the dubious pleasure of your visit, Emma?”

The Grand Duchess sighs dramatically.  “Vulcan borders are so droll, Erik.  I’m bored to tears out here.”

“And you decided it would be good for your mental health to board my ship?”

“Oh, because _you_ , yourself, were so occupied on other matters?” Frost arches a fine blond brow.  “Why, Erik, most men would consider themselves very lucky to have my crew on board.  Don’t tell me you’re _that_ cold blooded.”

Her eyes flick suddenly to Charles, too sharp by half.

The small smile that spreads across her lips then is nothing if not predatory.

“Unless of course I found you mid-thrust with other business.”

Charles feels a wash of warmth to his cheeks and hopes to God it’s not actually showing.  If he blushes, it’ll be like pounding the last nail on that coffin.  Charles had never met the Grand Duchess, though Erik has mentioned her in passing one time or another, always with a sort of cold disdain that, in Erik, is to be taken for grudging fondness.

Frost smiled widely.  Charles’ pokerface has potholes the size of Jupiter.  Damn it.

“No,” Erik answers pleasantly.  “Not at all.  Now that you’ve had your fun, why don’t you kindly take yourself, your crew, and your plus-sized hair off of my ship?”

“I like it here,” Frost tilts her hair.  “I found or conversations enlivening. I don’t—”

“Commander Lehnsherr, Grand Duchess Frost, urgent communication from Starfleet Command,” Raven interrupts.

Erik sits up straight, frowning.  “Put it through.”

Frost gets to her feet and round the desk to see the screen, standing at Erik’s other shoulder.  There isn’t even a Starfleet logo as is protocol, just Vicereine Maria Hill, of High Command, looking grim and pale.

“Grand Duchess Frost, you are hereby commanded to abandon your position in Vulcan space and travel immediately to the sector I am transmitting you.  Six minutes ago, we received an aid request from the Keflar home-ship Hejmo, reporting they had been attacked by a fleet of Nyrulian warships.” Vicereine Hill stops, seemingly shaken, before she rallies herself.  “Two minutes ago we received another communication that the Hejmo had been destroyed.  You are on a humanitarian mission to retrieve survivors and offer as much aid as you can.  Depart post-haste.  Dismissed.”

“Wait,” Erik says sharply, sitting up.  “What about the Heartsteel?”

“What about the Heartsteel, War-Prince Lehnsherr?” Vicereine Hill drills him with her eyes.  “You have your orders.  Follow them.”

“This is a humanitarian mission, you need all the ships you have—”

“Paladin Fury has given you your orders,” Hill cuts through coldly.  “And he has given no new ones.  Remain at your post.  _Dismissed_.”

The screen blacks out.

Charles is reeling.  He tries to think, but he is blank.  It’s like background noise has taken over the entirety of his mind.

Without pausing a single second, Frost puts a hand on Erik’s shoulder briefly and then rounds the desk and leaves the office, wordless, in company of her second-in-command.  Erik sits in his chair, shoulders and back stiff and straight, jaw grinding.  Charles knows how deeply Erik feels, despite how well he hides it.  Sometimes he feels Erik’s emotions will consume him, burn him from the inside until he is little more than a husk.  It terrifies him that he won’t be able to contain him, and that Erik will go from star to supernova right in front of his eyes.

But this time, as always, Erik gathers around himself a mesh of reinforced steel to hold himself together.  Charles watches as he grows calm by degrees, muscle groups relaxing one by one until he sits back, elegant and calm in his chair.

“We can’t tell the crew yet,” he announced quietly, eyes snapping up to Charles.  “We don’t even have all the facts.  It’ll just create panic.”

Charles feels his knees go slack.  To hide something of such magnitude as the Hejmo breaking apart and all the while act calm and composed, as if nothing has happened, in the eyes of his crew, fills him with dismay.  Charles hates lying, and has no talent for it besides.  He swallows and looks down, feeling slightly dizzy.  He sees, of course, the reasoning behind Erik’s command.  The War-Prince is right to think that with so little information, speculation will overwhelm the crew of the Heartsteel, and speculation based on uncertainty very quickly turns into fear, which in turn quickly turns into anger and danger.

He breathes out shakily.

“I will…lock myself in the science station,” he manages, shuddering.

Erik nods slowly, eyes sharp.  He finally stands, sliding his arms around Charles waist to bring him in against his chest, offering the solidity of his tall body to anchor him.  Charles closes his eyes and indulges momentarily, lets Erik offer a comfort they both sorely need, and closes his eyes.

“It’s best you stay off the bridge if you don’t think you can act normal.  Stay in the science station.  Raven will let you know of every bit of information we receive.  Come to the bridge only if you think you can handle it.  Charles,” he pauses, tilting the Prince’s head up to catch his eyes.  “We don’t have all the facts either.  Don’t give it all up for lost just yet.”

“Erik,” Charles gasps raggedly.  “All those people—”

“We don’t know,” Erik interrupts firmly.  “There were survivors.  Maybe the Hejmo just had minor damage.  The Keflars built that ship-planet to last, Charles.  Let’s keep our heads on until we know anything else.”

Charles nods, and stretches up to kiss Erik’s mouth gently, before pulling away and straightening his uniform.  He feels Erik watch him carefully as he dons once again the persona of a Deputy Commander.

The day-cycle drags on.  Charles stays firmly rooted to the science station in its secluded corner of the ship, deserted now because they don’t have any researchers with them.  Here he has peace and quiet, which he thought he desperately needed, but as he is on his own he can’t help but think of the Hejmo.

The Keflar home-planet, a dry desert rock located far on the spiraling arms of a distant galaxy, had been consumed by its star many centuries ago.  The star had gone supernova, but it had not done so abruptly, but rather over the course of several hundred years.  Alert to the condition of their star and understanding they could no nothing to prevent it, the Keflars had instead turned the considerable power of their intellect and technology to building themselves a new home, one that could house all of them and simultaneously grow to embrace the newer generations.  They had called this new, massive space-ship Hejmo: _home_.

The Hejmo was the most advanced space ship in the whole wide Universe, had been so then and was so now, as it continued to be reshaped as technology advanced.  Ever since its birth, the Keflars had allowed it to drift through space, unconcerned by its location and caring only to keep it from any collision courses.  The ship most likely piloted itself; the Keflars had been the first race to create a tridimensional star-chart spanning over the almost incomprehensible surface of space, showing galaxies and clusters of galaxies in ways that allowed them to be found and visited.

The ship was therefore notoriously difficult to find; not only did it coast through space unattended, but it was also cleverly cloaked with a devise no one had yet been able to understand, which made it impossible to locate unless specific directions were given.  One did not arrive at the Hejmo; the Hejmo drew one in.  The Hejmo was also the most expensive ship-building facility to charter, which only added to its notorious reputation.

All of this just helps to make Charles even more anxious.  How had the Nyrulians even _found_ the ship? How could they have found any way to injure it?  It was said to have impressive safety and defense mechanisms.

As the day-cycle wears on, the brief and few reports they get only intensify Charles’ horror.  Soon enough, it is confirmed the Hejmo has been destroyed by the heavy artillery of what could only be a whole squadron of heavy-duty Nyrulian warships.  The location of the massacre—for it has been a massacre—is within sight of the Andromeda galaxy; very clearly and very openly Earth Empire space.

It’s an act of war, but Charles can hardly think of it.

Reports of the recovery of survivors trickle in.  By all accounts it appears as though the Hejmo was taken by surprise and savagely attacked in a matter of minutes.  A ship the size of a planet cannot easily be evacuated for obvious reasons, and despite the Keflar’s well-prepared authorities and well-practiced drills, many evacuation vessels appear to have never left the remains of the ship.  Those who made it were then pitilessly put under Nyrulian fire.  Rescue and survival vessels unprepared for combat were shot upon, destroyed, and abandoned to drift through space.

The horror of it strikes Charles through the heart so hard he can hardly breathe.

Billions of lives lost.  An innocent pacifistic civilization devoted to intellectual pursuits and the advancement of technology for the good of the Universe ruthlessly destroyed in a meaningless act of brutality.

Charles has still not absorbed the shock of it when Erik rallies the crew and makes the announcement.  He stands by his War-Prince, hiding the trembling of his hands behind his back, and when Erik is done he mingles with the crew, offering comfort to those who more desperately need it, supporting the ones he sees crumble, squeezing shoulders, holding hands, patting backs.

Erik is a shadow, grim and dark.  Charles knows it must have hit him the hardest.  But the War-Prince walks amongst his men, nods his head, brushes his hand over the shoulders of those wiping tears from their cheeks, murmurs encouragement and shares their grief.  That’s just like Erik; to shoulder through his own devastation to soothe instead the pains of others.

Raven is silent.

By the time gamma-shift rolls around and Erik and Charles are relieved of duty, Charles feels like his grief weighs down on him like boulders.  He goes to the bathroom, washes his face with cold, cold water, and rallies himself.  Erik’s duty might be done for the day, but his is not.

When he comes back out, Erik is sitting on the edge of his bed, very still.  The top of his uniform jacket is undone, but he seems to have stopped mid-way and abandoned the effort.  He is, instead, staring at his hands, palm-up on his knees.  They’re shaking visibly.

Charles sits carefully by his side, and laces the fingers of his right hand with the ones of Erik’s left.  The War-Prince’s hands clench painfully, his right fisting so tightly his knuckles turn white.  His face is still very still, perfectly composed, though he is staring forward as though not really seeing what surrounds him.

He swallows once, audibly, and then shuts his eyes tightly and seems to disintegrate sideways onto Charles’ shoulder, silent but shaking.  His right hand grips Charles’ arm so hard he knows he’ll bruise.  The Prince exhales unsteadily, and stroked his fingers through Erik’s hair, soothing him.  There’s nothing he can say that will make this any better, but Erik isn’t the sort that wants reassurance and finds it in heartfelt words.  Actions are everything to Erik.

So Charles sits and lets Erik fall apart against him, all the more painfully because the taller man is so silent through it.

Eventually, Charles manages to undress him and get him in the bed.  Even as he sleeps, Erik holds him too tightly, as if his worst nightmare is that Charles will get up and leave him.  At some point, Charles lets himself also be lulled to sleep by Erik’s even breaths.  His sleep however is restless and agitated, and he’s only slept a couple of hours when he jars awake abruptly, seized by dismay.  He jerks so harshly he wakes Erik, who shoots up in bed, disoriented and alarmed.

“Tony,” Charles breathes, horrified, stomach sinking.


	6. Something else has come up

Paladin Nicholas Joseph Fury, high-ranking Starfleet Command officer, director of Starfleet Allied Intelligence, decorated war hero of the Nyrulian Conflict, Captain-and-Commander of the TEF heavy-duty combat station Ionstar, is doing the one thing he has promised his secretary he wouldn’t do while on the job.

He’s drinking good old fashioned whiskey.

It’s not helping.

Nicholas Fury is not the sort of man that falls apart in the wake of a tragedy.  If anything, tragedies make Nick flourish.  He thrives under pressure.  He leaps at every opportunity to act in some way that will alleviate the weight of the catastrophe, and allow Starfleet to recover and gather its wits about itself.

He’s seen massacres before.  He was around at the Nyrulian war, watched as First Earth collapsed and crumbled to dust.  Spent days without sleeping in the aftermath in a desperate scramble to gather the survivors and refuges of the home they had lost and keep them safe, keep them together.   

Years have passed since then, and many horrors, and the Nick Fury that would have been heartbroken at the sight of another world gone and billions of lives lost is dead.  The Nick Fury that remains is a cold shade, efficient and straightforward and sharpened to a blade.

He is sitting in his chair in the off-bridge office of the Ionstar, legs crossed, fingers laced.  In front of him the wall-to-wall viewscreen is fragmented into different scenes of the rescue operation.  Of course, the Ionstar is here to provide major support to the humanitarian mission.  A ship the size of this one can easily house several hundred refugees in acceptable living conditions.

An average commander and a better man would be down in the receiving platform now, aiding in the reception and orientation of the Keflar refugees, offering support in the face of the deepest of losses.  Unfortunately while Nick’s got a lot of talents, diplomacy is most certainly not one of them.  That’s why he got into the fucking Fleet in the first place.  There wasn’t supposed to be diplomacy on his long (really fucking long and no joke) list of duties, but well, surprise, surprise.

If he goes down there all he’s going to do is stand rigidly in a corner and grit his teeth whenever the traumatized Keflars step into his ship, and he sincerely doubts that’s going to help _anybody_.  Nick knows his limitations.

Let Maria deal with the refugees.  She’s still got a heart, and an expressive enough face to convey grim determination along with heartfelt grief.

All Nick can feel right now is cold.  Hence the whiskey.  Which, as previously stated, is not fucking helping.

He downs the rest of it and tosses the tumbler on the table, where it sways precariously on an edge monetarily, before finally settling on its side.  A single drop of amber liquid trickles down to the smooth glossy surface of his desk.  The screenglass is opaque now, the table turned off.  Not all off-bridge offices come with screenglass control stations, but Nick is not ashamed to say he’s a control freak.  From this desk here he can control down to the smallest light in this ship, and that’s exactly how he likes it.

If only everything in the galaxy were that easy to control.

He flicks his eyes up to the viewscreen and watches in silence as one of the Quinjets swoops in to rescue a coasting life shuttle with a damaged engine.

To destroy the Hejmo is one thing.  To set upon its helpless survivors with vicious and murderous intent is quite another.  The Nyrulians were clearly ticked off.  That the Nyrulians are well and truly off their motherfucking collective hive-mind rockers is no news, but the brutality of this attack is striking.  The pursuit and methodical destruction of the escape shuttles is even more so.  More than some random attack in the middle of space, this was beginning to look more and more like a premeditated massacre and the obvious intention to eradicate the Keflars from the face of the Universe.

Fury is now in the position he despises the most; he has a cargo ship of questions and absolutely no motherfucking answers.

Questions: How had the Nyrulians _found_ the Hejmo?  How had the Nyrulians _overcome_ the Hejmo?   _Why_ had the Nyrulians attacked the Hejmo?

Answers: blank space.

Gripped by a sudden flash of wrath rising up his throat like bile, he palms the tumbler in his hand.  He flexes his fingers, watches the skin of his fingertips press against the crystal.

Nick Fury’s worst flaw is his temper.  He has the temper of a devil, bright and hot like a star.  Over the years he’s learned to control it, and now he only very rarely loses it, and every single time he learns to regret it.  Once upon a time he learned to deflate it by destroying things; bottles, statues, delicate tumblers of old blown glass.  But he also grew out of that habit; now he only breaks things he can fix or replace.

He sets the tumbler down and stands, rounding the desk, gripping his hands behind his back at parade rest.

He needs answers to figure this out, because all the Keflars that were breathing, laughing creatures this morning and are now cold meat floating in space deserve to be avenged.  He has to put together the pieces of this puzzle, figure out the right angle by which he might spy an answer between two looming secrets.

There can only be one reason the Nyrulians would seek out the Keflars; they wanted their technology.  That’s fine.   _Everyone_ wants Keflar technology.  Costly and smug as they are—were— _motherfucker_ —they _were_ the best.  It’s also no surprise the Keflars would deny the Nyrulians their tech; they were picky, and the Nyrulians are disgusting in every single sense.

Fine.  There’s one question answered.  The Nyrulians wanted tech, the Keflars said no, boom.  It’s not enough to satisfy Fury, but it’s the beginning of a cause, a starting point, and that’s all his mind needs to open up a fan of possibilities that will quickly congeal into a spider web of facts.

Speaking of facts.

“Ionstar, pull up the Heartsteel mission report for their last assignment.”

A slight chime, and the viewscreen fades from retrieve-and-rescue mission to a written report complete with charts and crew logs.  Lehnsherr is one anal bastard.  His mission reports are a dozen pages, when all Command really needs is three paragraphs and a grin.  He doesn’t need to include the exact coordinates of his hyperspace jumps, but lo, there they are.  Sometimes Fury thinks the poor kid has obsessive compulsive disorder.

He’s also always freakishly early.

It’s curious, then, that considering Lehnsherr’s track record of flawlessly filed and unnecessarily (seriously unnecessary, they are fucking _tedious_ ) long and detailed reports, in this particular one he neglected to share with the class how his huge behemoth of a ship managed to slip in _and_ out of Nyrulian space undetected.

“Riddle me that,” Fury mutters broodingly, pulling up the Heartsteel’s schematics.

A handsome enough ship; clear elegant lines and a masculine, aggressive design.  But overall unimpressive.  For a Keflar ship, it sure looks dull.

There’s only one thing in this Universe Fury hates more than Wade Wilson, and it’s people keeping secrets from him.  And this, right here, this is one big fat motherfucking secret Lehnsherr is keeping.

Fury seriously doesn’t even give a shit that he’s obviously fucking his Deputy Commander.  Everyone in the Fleet that has one eye and a brain knows they’ve been working their way towards that since they got on that ship together—even before, probably.  Fury really just couldn’t care less whose dick is where, so long as all the dicks concerned _do their jobs_.

What Lehnsherr did, taking a hike to Nyrulian space to chase after his pining lover or whatever, was a complete and severe breach of Starfleet protocol.  Fury’s had to pull a lot of strings to keep him in his stupid fucking ship instead of letting him suffer the rightful penalty, which is six months of groundwork, and the dismemberment of his crew.  He doesn’t think Lehnsherr or Xavier appreciate the severity of their infraction.

Neither of them knows that Fury has saved their asses, yet.  But when the time comes, Nick will absolutely not hesitate to grab them by the balls.

He would love to take his time figuring this shit out, picking Lehnsherr’s brain slowly and methodically, and leaning heavily on Xavier—because if one of those two will break, it’ll be Xavier—and that was precisely what he had planned.  Scrape at those secrets until they bled truth.

Unfortunately, he can no longer afford that finesse.  Not with the Hejmo floating like a split eggshell in space and the Nyrulians growing bolder in their incursions into Earth Empire territory.  And Lehnsherr and Xavier keeping secrets from Command.

“That shit’s just not gonna walk,” he says, crossing his arms.

He stares at the Heartsteel specs and blueprints for a little while longer, squinting, ignoring for the moment the incoming torrent of data from the massive rescue operation outside.

He’d still not figured out what the fuck could have made the Heartsteel magically go unnoticed in enemy space when the Ionstar announces an incoming urgent communication from Command.

“What is it?  Put it on the screen.”

A brief report blinks into the center of the screen.  Nick reads it several times over.

“Mother _fucker!_ ”

 

X

 

“This is bullshit,” Scott seethes, “a whole damn race just got annihilated and we’re still fucking sitting in Vulcan space?  Are you _fucking_ kidding me?”

Logan doesn’t have an answer for him, other than the obvious.  The Keflars have been decimated, and no one on the Heartsteel is taking it very well—no one in the damn universe is probably taking it very well, except for the bastards that had done the killing.  No wonder Charles had been MIA all day long—he and the Commander had probably known about the massacre for hours before Erik had made the announcement to the crew, and the Deputy had looked about ready to fall apart.

He’s not the one Logan is actually worried about, though.

“I don’t know why we didn’t just say fuck you and go anyway.”  Scott is continuing his tirade, glowering at the ceiling as he lies stretched out across Logan’s bed.  “What the fuck would they do?  Punish us for abandoning our already empty post and coming to help with rescue and recovery?  Isn’t the Commander fucking _friends_ with the Keflars?  He should be leading our damn charge.”

Logan chews his cigar slowly.  “I think that’s why we haven’t moved in the first place,” he answers slowly, because it’s kind of hard to wrap his brain around the concept of Erik Lehnsherr actually having emotions, “they were his goddamn friends and now they’re all _dead_.”

Scott is silent for a few moments.  “I didn’t think of it like that,” he admits at last, more subdued, “he’s probably hurting right now.  A whole fucking lot.”

Logan grunts his agreement.  He’s hoping that’s more of an accurate description and not an understatement.  Erik had looked as composed as ever when he’d made the announcement to the crew, but Logan hadn’t missed how Charles had been watching the War-Prince like a hawk the entire time despite his own obvious distress, and if there’s one goddamn person in the galaxy who knows how to see through Erik’s Unreadable Dickhead act, it’s Charles Xavier.

And Logan is willing to bet that whatever Charles is seeing beneath the Commander’s mask ain’t pretty.

“He has shitty luck with things like that,” Scott mumbles after another stretch of silence, “and that fucking sucks.”

Logan nods.  He knows Erik is originally from First Earth, and barely made it off the planet before the Nyrulians destroyed it.  His parents had been killed.  And now the Nyrulians have destroyed the Keflars, who Logan knows Erik had been very close friends with—they’d given him the Heartsteel, for fuck’s sake, and Logan has yet to run into a better ship.

That’s twice now that the Nyrulians have fucked up Erik’s life, not to mention that they’d even tried their hand at killing Charles as well.  The fuckers must be running up quite a tally on Erik’s shit list, Logan thinks.  They’ll be lucky if Erik doesn’t crack soon.

“Are we going to go to war?” Scott wonders, almost hesitantly, as if he’s afraid to voice the thought aloud.

“I don’t know,” Logan answers him heavily, because that’s another question that’s been running circles in his brain, “we’d look pretty fucking weak if we just sat back on our asses after what’s happened, but at the same time…”  He trails off.

“It’s the fucking _Nyrulians_.” Scott says, as if that’s explanation enough.  “We only won the last war by default when they _mysteriously_ pulled back.”  He says the word derisively.  “If they’d fought till the end—”

“—we’d all be dead, yes, I know,” Logan interrupts him, because he’s heard Scott’s conspiracy theories about the Nyrulian Conflict a million goddamn times now.

“I don’t know about you, but I don’t fucking want to go up against something that can tear apart the Hejmo.”

Logan doesn’t answer, because the thought makes him uneasy.  The Nyrulians had serious firepower in the last war, and now it appears they haven’t been just fucking around in the past few years.  Obviously they’d wanted more, going after the Keflars; and the Keflars—the poor, brave fools—had said no.

“What the fuck are we going to _do_?” Scott asks blankly into the silence.

“Our duty,” Logan answers grimly, “and hope that it doesn’t get us killed.”

 

X

 

Erik’s at a loss, which he thinks is perfectly reasonable, because not only is he exhausted, both mentally and physically, he still feels as if someone has carved open his chest without bothering to use anesthesia—and now he’s pretty sure that Charles just said _Tony_ , which is not remotely close to _Erik_.

“Who is Tony?” he asks, doing his best to sound neutral and uninterested, but that’s hard when his voice is coming out as a raspy croak and alarm bells are going off in his head, because Charles has never mentioned a Tony before, and now Erik is trying to think of all the things that could potentially mean.

It’s almost relieving, in a way, to be thinking about something else right now.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” Charles says quickly, looking at him with worry plain on his face.  He’s fidgeting with the edge of the bed sheet, and his face is pale.

Erik reaches for him, because right now he is fairly certain he falls under the category of emotionally compromised and probably shouldn’t even be acting as the Commander still, and right now he needs to touch Charles and reaffirm that the Prince is still here, still alive—the Nyrulians had failed in one aspect, at least.

Charles shifts over to him at once and Erik draws him in close, leaning back against the wall with Charles straddling him, knees on either side of Erik’s waist.  Charles leans forward, sprawling across Erik’s chest and tucking his head under Erik’s chin and Erik is content to hold him, warm and solid and real, breathing quietly together in their shared space.

“I’m so sorry,” Charles says softly, his lips brushing against Erik’s skin lightly.  Erik knows he isn’t talking about waking him up anymore.  “I’m so sorry.”

Erik closes his eyes.  He doesn’t want or need pity, and from Charles it’s both better and worse.  Better because Charles is the only one who Erik will allow to see himself like this and will accept comfort from, but worse because damn it, he should be stronger than this, especially _for_ Charles.

“One of the reports that came in earlier,” Erik starts, but then he has to stop, because his voice gets caught in his throat for a moment as a fresh wave of heartache hits him, making it hard to breathe, let alone speak.  He gathers himself.  “Edgar is dead.”

Charles slips his arms down around Erik’s back and squeezes him tightly, wordless.  Erik brings his own arms up to rest on the Deputy’s back, holding his smaller, more compact body against his own just as tightly.  The Captain and Commander of the Hejmo had been a friend and a mentor to him.  One of the very first reports that had come in throughout the day had confirmed his death—he had gone down with his ship.

Erik feels this keenly, because it is just like the loss of his parents all over again.  Whereas before when he’d lost his parents, Erik had felt nothing but anger, bright and hot, that had consumed him for years before burning out and cooling to a crisp, he now only feels heavy sorrow that drags him down into its cold depths and leaves him numb save for Charles’ warm weight on top of him.

He doesn’t know what he should feel.  He hasn’t been very good with emotions ever since the loss of his parents—his anger back then burned all of them out, he thinks, because he knows what Logan and Scott say about him when they think he isn’t listening.  Should he be angry again?  If he isn’t angry does that mean he doesn’t care enough?

Erik doesn’t know.  He just wants to feel something other than the pained emptiness that has taken up residence inside him.  He draws in a shaky breath, his chest stuttering slightly with the unevenness.

Charles doesn’t say anything, silent in Erik’s arms, but Erik knows he’s still awake because his hands slowly move across Erik’s back, gentle and soothing.  Charles’ wordless understanding means more to Erik than any words.  Charles knows.  Erik had brought him along to meet Edgar once.

It’d been the day he’d been given the Heartsteel.

Erik can’t think about this anymore.

“Who is Tony?” he asks again, because he’d been distracted by his need to reaffirm Charles’ real presence.  The unpleasant bothered feeling is back now, but that’s better than nothing.

Charles tenses in Erik’s arms, and then he’s sitting up, so that they’re at perfect eye-level with each other.  “Tony Stark.  He’s a friend from the Academy,” he answers, looking worried again, “and the last time I talked to him, he was headed for the Hejmo to study under the Keflars.”

“You’ve never mentioned him before.”  There are several significant things Charles has said, but Erik is still a little hung up on the fact that Charles woke him up with a mystery man’s name.  He thinks that he can be allowed a little pettiness, at this point.

“I met him after you graduated,” Charles says, and at least he’s not hesitating with his answers because that would be even worse, “and I must’ve forgotten to mention him to you because I was really focused on convincing you about Scott and Logan’s merits.  You didn’t honestly think Scott and Logan were my only friends, did you?”  He sounds horrified at the thought.

Erik jerks his shoulders in a shrug.  He might’ve assumed.  He’s realized multiple times by now how much he took Charles for granted all those years, and he doesn’t like the reminder now.

“I think I would’ve been insane by the time I graduated.” Charles says, and he probably has a point.  “Tony didn’t say for long at the Academy.  He dropped out our senior year.  I don’t know why.  He was a brilliant engineer, though.  That’s why he wanted to go to the Hejmo.”

That explains why Erik’s never heard of him in the Fleet, then, at least.  If the Fleet had managed to get one of its own engineers studying under the Keflars, the High Command would have been broadcasting that loud and clear for the rest of the galaxy to hear.

“Charles,” he says gently, because he’s not trying to knock the Deputy down a peg or anything, “I very much doubt that if he was even able to find the Keflars, they allowed him to study beneath them.”

“No, he made it to the Hejmo,” Charles says, sounding very certain, “I didn’t keep in contact with him, but one of our other friends did.  The last I heard, he _was_ studying beneath the Keflars.”

Erik raises his eyebrows.  For the Keflars to allow an outsider in that deeply?  Who _is_ Tony Stark?  “None of the reports detailed a human death.  All the deaths listed so far have been Keflar.”  He knows this painfully well.

Charles shakes his head, worried again.  “No one knows that Tony was there.  Except for me and our other friend, the one he kept in contact with.”  He swallows.  “And it will take them ages to go through the bodies.”

Erik doesn’t want to think about that.  “Would your other friend know if he was alive?” he asks instead.  He’s still skeptical about all this, but at least it’s keeping his mind off of other things.  

“I don’t know, I haven’t spoken to him in awhile either.” Charles says, and Erik gets the feeling that the Prince would be ringing his hands if he weren’t already holding onto Erik’s shoulders.

Erik reaches up to trace Charles’ jawline deftly, because the Deputy is getting that frantic look in his eyes that Erik hates to see him wear.  “Can you send him a transmission asking him?”

“I could.” Charles says slowly, eyes darting to the side as he thinks.  Erik’s having another moment where he wishes he knew what went through that brilliant head of Charles’ so quickly.  “It would be a very public call, though, and really, Erik, _no one_ should know that Tony studied with the Keflars, especially not the Fleet.”

Erik can understand that.  Tony Stark would be the most sought-after man in the galaxy if word got out that the Keflars shared their technological knowledge with him.  But something else is bothering him too.  “Charles…who is your friend?”

This time Charles _does_ hesitate.  He looks back up at Erik slowly.  “Steve Rogers.”

Erik stares at him for a moment.  “Is that the same person I’m thinking of.”

Charles nods.  “Paladin Steve Rogers, Captain Commander of the TEF Space Base Americium.”

 

X

 

They’re idling in space like assholes while everyone else runs around like headless chickens trying to save lives from the wreckage of a ship the size of a planet.

Logan has been piling layers of rage on top of layers of wrath, and he’s smoked five cigars in the last five hours, which is a lot even for him, so thank god some smart cookie of the past cured fucking lung cancer.

He’s run six different simulations, checked course and primed every propulsion system in Heartsteel even though Raven has said several times that she’s made damn well sure to keep them perfectly primed herself, so there is really no need.  Logan is keeping busy with pointless shit because he’s pretty fucking sure that the second he’s idle, he is going to wreck shit because he is _so fucking angry_.

Sitting like dickheads in the middle of fucking nowhere isn’t really helping.  Even Scott is too tangled up inside his own head to provide appropriate distraction.

Logan is waiting for the moment they are both off duty and alone together, because when he is in this sort of mood only wrecking shit or fucking Scott make him feel like a human being again.

Raven is back online and as neutral and calm as ever, even though the data streaming directly from the Hejmo that kept her updated is gone.  They’ll have to do it manually from now on, connecting to the stations instead of the remote link to the Keflar home-base.

This is only one of the many thousands of repercussions they are starting to think of.  More will arise, like a blow to the chest shortening their breath, for what is sure to be years to come.  Logan still feels dizzy with rage whenever he thinks of it.  All those innocent, calm Keflars.  Gone.

Meanwhile, one of the best ships of the fucking Fleet sits like an overgrown fucking beacon in the middle of peaceful Vulcan space.

“Hey, asshole, I can hear your teeth grinding from over here,” Scott mutters.

“You want me to punch yours in instead?”

“Suck my dick,” Scott sneers.

“Not unless you want me to bite it the fuck off.”

Scott opens his mouth to reply, but just then Raven chimes to announce Commander on deck, and Scott and Logan turn in their chairs to greet their commanding officers.  Erik still looks pale, but other than the deathly pallor, his blank mask is back on and perfectly fitted.  Charles is looking a bit worse for wear, stressed and anxious.

Without a single word, Charles goes to his station and enters in a set of new coordinates that he immediately sends to Logan’s navigation system.  Logan arches his brows.

“Set course to those coordinates post haste,” Erik says flatly.

Scott and Logan exchange looks.

Scott starts, “Um, sir, I don’t mean to argue or anything—”

“Then don’t,” drawls Erik.

“—but what about our orders, sir?  We were told to stay put.”

“Something else has come up,” Erik says calmly.  “By my estimation we are no busier here than we would be, should be relocate to the new destination.  And should anything occur, we could always return at once.”

Logan glances at the coordinates.  Sure, they’re close.  And it’s a pretty fucking simple trajectory, no hyperspace jumps required.  They can be there in fifteen minutes of full-forward engines.  They can be back in one minute at Maximum Burn.

“What the hell is even there?”

“The Es-Bee Americium,” Charles replies, a little concern creasing between his dark brows.

“What the fuck are we going to some middle-of-nowhere Es-Bee for?” Logan looks at him weirdly. “That base’s been sitting there for like a year, doing nothing. If we’re going to ditch this shit—”

“Mind your language,” Erik warns flatly.

“—if we’re going to ditch this shit _sir_ , why don’t we just go over to the Hejmo coordinates and actually do something constructive with our time?”

“With what little time we can have before they court-martial all our dicks,” Scott chimes in. “Which will be how long exactly, Raven?”

“Approximately two point five days.”

“Right, those good two point five days of freedom before everlasting brig.”

“Are you attempting to be the voice of reason here, Legionnaire Howlett?” Erik asks silkily, and oh fuck, this is going to hurt.  It always fucking hurts when Erik is that utterly still and his voice is that eerily calm, like a blade in the dark.  The problem is Logan never learned to fucking diffuse a situation.

“I’m sure Logan is just concerned,” Charles steps in hastily, tone soothing.

Erik’s eyes are glittering with malice of the sort Logan only very rarely sees in him, but here’s the thing about Erik Lehnsherr: Logan loves him, but Erik Lehnsherr is in fact a piece of shit, and only acts like a human being because Charles Xavier is somewhere in the vicinity and Charles Xavier doesn’t like harsh words to be delivered in his presence.

So Erik subsides, hands relaxing on the armrests of his chair, and gives Logan a cool, detached look.  Logan isn’t about to open his mouth; he didn’t dodge that bullet, it’s still hovering in the air right in front of his forehead.  One wrong word and it goes through him.

“Set the course,” Erik says at length, voice even and smooth like ice.  “And punch it.”

Logan sets the course and punches it.  At his side, Scott is silent and visibly unnerved.  Erik can get fucking scary when he wants to, and he’s obviously hanging by a thread to any sort of civilized behavior.  That thread is whatever the fuck Charles and him have going on.

The Americium is a medium-sized Space Base, stationed in the middle of godforsaken fucking _nowhere_.  It’s where assholes go to let their careers die.  It’s also painted in weird fucking colors, but that’s probably just a poor design choice, so whatever.  It’s not like Logan completed a course on exterior ship decorating (he was drunk when he signed up, dropped after the second class… _Yes he went to two fucking classes_ ).

“Cassidy, hail the Es-Bee,” Erik drawls flatly.  “Let them know we request docking space.”

The CO does as commanded, and a second later the Starfleet logo flickers on the viewscreen, then the Americium’s logo (a white star on a circle, who the hell understands that one).  And at last a face shows up on the screen; a blond, pale-faced man with blue eyes.

“Charles,” he says, sounding like he’s just breathed in for the first time in about a week.

“Steve,” Charles is bewildered but recovers quickly.  “Um, sir.  I didn’t expect you to reply yourself. I was hoping to speak with you—”

Steve Rogers—what that fuck is this dude doing answering phones, for fuck’s sake, doesn’t he have a well-racked secretary to do that, what the fuck—shakes his head slightly to stop him.  “Charles, it's about Tony.  It’s bad.”

Charles sways slightly on his feet, looking sick.  Erik’s face closes off even more, so now he looks like the fucking Triton tundra of facial expressions.

Well, now they’re probably even more fucked, if that’s even possible, which Logan would have been previously inclined to believe was not.

Logan always fucking gets it wrong.


	7. Throw away the key

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! Pan went to London. The nerve.
> 
> In which Pan combines Star Trek, Star Wars, and XMFC all together in one single scene (see if you can spot it) and Reg makes you want to scream. Enjoy!

Charles feels sick.

Steve ended his transmission to the Heartsteel after granting them the standard permission to dock at the Es-Bee, and now the bridge is silent as Scott and Logan bring the ship down.  Charles remains on his feet, ignoring how his leg is beginning to protest, gripping the edge of his station so tightly that his fingers are white.

He looks over at Erik, and the War-Prince’s jaw is locked as he stares out the view of the main screen, his face entirely expressionless.  Erik’s mask had slipped into place somewhere on their journey from his quarters to the bridge, and if Charles is honest with himself, he hadn’t been surprised when Erik had been ready to lash out at Logan and Scott.  He’d been expecting it.  He knows how Erik’s defenses work.

He is worried for Tony—scared, even, especially since Steve wouldn’t say anything more over the transmission—but he aches for Erik, because he knows Erik is hurting and Charles is at a loss because he doesn’t know how to make any of this better.  Erik has lost something—again, for a second time, oh _god_ —that Charles is fairly sure that he himself has never had, so he has no idea what to say or what to do.

Charles desperately wishes that he did.

“Ship secured,” Scott announces into the silence, “vacuum sealed, oxygen levels stable.  Gangway in the process of being lowered, sir.”

“Engines powered down,” Logan adds gruffly, which makes Charles bite his lower lip because the Helmsman is probably angry, and rightfully so, “sir.”

“Charles,” Erik says shortly as he gets to his feet.

Charles hurries over to meet him by the elevator.  Steve is probably already waiting down in the loading dock for them, and Charles is anxious to hear about Tony.

“Everyone remain on standby,” Erik commands as the elevator door hisses open, “await further orders.”

“Wait,” Scott says as he and Logan climb to their feet as well and follow Charles over to the elevator, “we want to come, sir.”

“You don’t need to.” Erik says flatly.  His tone books no room for further argument.

“But we want to, sir,” Scott persists anyway, still polite—but there’s a distinct edge to his voice now and Charles can tell that he’s not happy.

“Need I remind either of you what happened the last time you both set foot on an Es-Bee?” Erik asks, his voice still flat.  One of his hands has come to rest on Charles’ bicep, which Charles is sure was an unconscious movement.

Charles swallows.  Scott and Logan’s antics on the Es-Bee Titanium weren’t exactly exemplary, but he doesn’t think that now is the time to call them out on it.  “I’m sure that—”

“Tony is our friend too,” Logan interrupts Charles, and oh god, he’s aiming below the belt, “sir.”

Erik’s hand tightens on Charles’ arm.  “Take the next one down,” the War-Prince snaps, and then he pulls Charles into the elevator, the door sliding shut before any more can be said.

Charles stumbles a little but Erik has already released him, stepping away to the other side of the elevator with his back to the Prince, the entire set of his back and shoulders tense.  The elevator begins to plunge down and Charles straightens slowly, redistributing most of his weight onto his better leg.

“Raven, stop the elevator, please.” Charles says quietly, his eyes on Erik, and they slow to a halt in between decks.

Erik doesn’t move, and for a few long moments the elevator is silent.  “I’m sorry,” he says, and he sounds exhausted.

Charles steps up behind him, wrapping his arms around Erik’s chest and turning his head sideways to rest his cheek on Erik’s back.  He’s silent for another few long moments.  “I love you.”

He feels the small tremor that runs down Erik’s spine; then the War-Prince turns and Charles holds still and allows himself to be maneuvered backwards until his back hits the wall.  Erik looms over him, pressing them together so close that Charles is firmly sandwiched between the War-Prince and the wall, his body covered by Erik’s.

Erik rests his forehead against Charles’, his eyes closed.  “I am bad at this,” he says quietly, breathing out a weary sigh, “I should be better.”

Charles closes his eyes as well, breathing in and out in time with him.  “You’re not okay,” he answers softly, because he knows, even though he can’t do anything at least he still _knows_ , “and I know.  You don’t have to—have to pretend, or—” He breaks off, swallows.  Grips Erik tightly.  “What they’ve done to you, what they’ve taken from you— _twice_ —it’s not fair and no one should ever have to know that or feel that, but it’s happened, hasn’t it, and I wish it hadn’t.  God, Erik, I wish it hadn’t.”

Erik’s breath catches and for a moment he’s so still that Charles is almost afraid to breathe in case the War-Prince shatters.  Then Erik seems to sag, his always-perfect posture breaking as his shoulders slump and he presses even closer with a shudder.  Charles shifts as much as he can to accommodate him, letting Erik lean on him.  Erik doesn’t say anything, and Charles knows he won’t, because Erik’s never been one for words but that’s alright because Charles thinks he has enough words for the both of them if need be.

“I’ll be whatever you need me to be,” Charles says, feeling hot pinpricks of water in the corners of his eyes because if Erik won’t cry, Charles can do that for him too, “whatever you need, and I’ll—”

Erik nudges his head back gently and kisses him, crushing their mouths together with an almost feverish intensity as he coaxes Charles’ mouth open.  Charles obliges, parting his lips so Erik can taste him, kissing him back with an edge of desperation because it seems like the galaxy is starting to fall apart and he won’t be able to bear it if Erik does too.

When they pull apart gently the elevator starts to move again but Erik remains pressed close, and Charles opens his eyes to look up at him.  Erik still has his eyes shut and he takes a moment to gather himself, drawing in a deep breath before opening them to look back at Charles with every single ounce of his quiet, focused intensity.

“We’re going to find your friend,” he says, the words soft between them in their shared space but no less of a promise, “and it’s going to be alright.”

Charles nods, eyes slightly wide, unable to tear his gaze away from Erik’s.  He brings one hand up to carefully brush back a curl of hair off Erik’s forehead.  “Everything will be alright,” he says, because if Erik can believe it then so can he, and he offers Erik a small, watery smile, “it’ll have to be.”

Erik nods once, slowly, gaze unblinking.  “I love you.”

Charles’ smile grows a little softer.  “I know.”

Erik kisses him again, gentle and sweet, and doesn’t pull away even when the elevator touches down at the bottom of the ship and the door slides open.  Instead he finishes the kiss, pulling back slowly, and then carefully steps back to allow Charles off the wall, one hand at the Prince’s elbow to help him balance.  Charles finds Erik’s hand with his own and squeezes gently, and after another moment they both slowly let go of one another and step out of the elevator.

Charles sticks by Erik’s side as they make their way down the lowered gangway, relieved for the fact that while Erik is still not close to being alright, he’s steadier and in control again, and Charles knows that eventually, one day, Erik _can_ be alright, which is what matters most.

Steve is waiting for them down at the base of the gangway, and despite everything that is happening, Charles is glad to see him.  He had met Steve Rogers back at the Academy a few months after Erik had graduated and shipped out, when he’d been in the library actually studying instead of watching Scott and Logan getting into bar fights—and if Charles is honest, having a strictly academic friendship had been somewhat cathartic at the time.

He and Erik come to a stop in front of Steve, snapping to attention.  Steve looks well, given his disgraced position and the current circumstances.  Charles had thought he was small compared to Erik’s height and broad shoulders, but the Paladin makes the War-Prince look like a twig with his taller stature and even broader shoulders, his muscular arms looking as if they’re barely contained by his uniform jacket and for a split second of stunned disbelief Charles wants to know what they serve in the mess of the Americium and if he could get a plate.

“At ease,” Steve says, extending a hand, polite as ever, “welcome to the Es-Bee Americium.”

Charles waits for Erik to relax before following suit, and then reaches forward to shake Steve’s hand.  “It’s really good to see you, sir—”

Steve pulls him into a one-armed hug, making Charles blink in surprise.  “I heard about what your step-brother did to you,” he says, “I’m really glad you’re alright, Charles.”

“Thank you, sir,” Charles says, startled even though he’s sure the story of his capture and rescue has been spread far and wide throughout the Fleet.  He hugs Steve back as best as he can, patting what he can reach of the taller man’s back.

“Just Steve,” the Paladin answers, and then Charles hears Erik pointedly clearing his throat.

Charles slips back out of Steve’s grasp, stepping back beside Erik.  “I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for my Commander, sir.  Um, Steve.”

Steve smiles, small but genuine.  “War-Prince Erik Lehnsherr,” he says, offering Erik a hand, “I’ve heard a lot about you.  Pleasure to meet you.”

Erik shakes his hand, somewhat stiffly, and Charles presses his fingers against the small of Erik’s back lightly in reassurance.  “Good to meet you as well, sir.”

“Just Steve,” the Paladin tells him as Scott and Logan jog down the gangway, and when they come to a stop, snapping to attention, he gives them each a nod.  “Scott, Logan.  It looks like we’re all here.”  His smile grows tight.  “You’d all better follow me.”

 

X

 

Erik keeps an eye on Charles as they follow Rogers up through the Americium, watching the Prince doing his best not to limp as he makes stilted small talk with the Paladin.  Neither of them has said anything about Tony Stark yet, but Erik imagines that the subject will come up as soon as they’re all behind a closed door.

He’s still feeling a little cut open and raw from their elevator ride on the Heartsteel, but just looking at Charles makes him feel calmer and grounded, secure in a way he actually hasn’t had ever since the Nyrulians tore apart First Earth with their plasma beams.  The Nyrulians took his parents from him, and now have even taken what could have served, maybe, as a replacement, but he still has Charles.

As long as Erik has Charles, it will be alright.

Logan and Scott are directly behind him, silent and serious for once in their lives.  Erik isn’t ready to verbally apologize even though he knows he should—Charles will probably heavily advocate for it later, when he’s not thinking about Tony—but when Rogers leads them into a small conference room Erik pauses before going in and turns around to face them both, meeting each of their gazes.

“Don’t,” Logan says, rolling his eyes once, but he claps a hand on Erik’s shoulder briefly, “we know.”

“We’re all assholes,” Scott adds with a shrug, “even Charles.”

Erik raises an eyebrow.

“Okay, maybe not Charles.”

It’s Erik’s turn to roll his eyes, turning away to continue into the conference room, but he can’t deny the tiny flicker of grudging warmth he has for Scott and Logan as they follow him in, because even though he can’t stand them more than half the time, they still might be like family too, even though he’ll never admit it.

Charles is settling himself down into a chair and as Erik approaches he catches Erik’s eye, his gaze warm.  Erik sits down in the chair beside him, slipping his hand under the table to settle on the Prince’s thigh.  Charles covers Erik’s hand with one of his own, and together—because they don’t need to exchange any words, not right now—they focus their attention on Rogers.

Erik made a promise to Charles back in that elevator and he intends to keep it, even if he has to drag Tony Stark back from across the entire galaxy in the process.

“Is Tony alive?” Charles asks as soon as the door slides shut behind Logan.

“He’s alive,” Rogers confirms, and Charles practically sags in relief, “but it’s not good, Charles.”

Charles straightens his shoulders, visibly steeling himself.  Erik gives his leg a small squeeze.  “Tell us everything, please.”

Rogers nods.  He’s taken a seat at the head of the conference table, leaning forward against the glass surface, his face grim.  “Did Tony ever tell you why he dropped out of the Academy?”

Charles shakes his head.  “No.  Well, when he said goodbye to me he told me that he’d decided that the Fleet wasn’t really his cup of tea.”

Erik keeps his face smooth and doesn’t comment.  He can’t imagine life without the Fleet, at this point.

“Well…that’s not exactly why he dropped out.” Rogers says heavily.  “Do you remember the spring break of our senior year?”

“Um,” Charles says.

Scott snorts.  “He spent most of it face down under a pile of beer bottles.”

“Erik, you were still on duty and working on your promotion to War-Prince,” Charles says, glancing at him, cheeks slightly flushed, “and Steve, you’d gone home to visit your family.”  He frowns slightly.  “I don’t remember where Tony went.  But really—”

“He was stuck with us.”  Scott says smugly.  Then he winces when Erik crushes his foot under the table because really, the amount of times Scott has interrupted Charles over the course of their careers is both disturbing and unacceptable.

“Tony went on a trip with several of the guys in the engineering track,” Rogers says, taking back control over the conversation, “and they ended up on the edge of the Embudo System.”

Erik raises his eyebrows.  The Embudo System lies on the far, outer reaches of the galaxy, still barely within Earth Empire territory.  It’s not known for being a prime vacation spot—quite the opposite.  “Why would they choose to go there?”

Rogers shakes his head.  “Tony has never been one for making, ah, good decisions.”

Charles is still frowning.  “I think I remember something about that now.  But they made it back just fine, didn’t they?  That was actually only a couple weeks before Tony dropped out.”

Rogers looks tired.  “Tony was approached by Nyrulians while he was out there.”

Erik’s eyes dart back to Charles at once.  The Prince has stiffened, and he’s practically cutting off blood flow in Erik’s hand with how tight his grip has suddenly gone.  Erik turns his hand over so he can hold Charles’ hand back, and asks steadily, “What did they want from him?”

“They’d already heard about him due to his father’s company,” Rogers answers, “and everyone knows that, barring the Keflars, Stark Industries used to be the best tech company in the galaxy.  The Nyrulians essentially wanted Tony to work for them.”

“So he ran.” Erik says flatly.

Roger’s clear blue eyes snap to him and frost over. He’s caught the hint, and he doesn’t like what Erik is implying.

“The Nyrulians made some pretty heavy threats,” he answers just as flatly, “so Tony dismantled Stark Industries completely and took off to live with the Keflars.  How he managed to find them and convince them to allow him to stay is beyond me.”

“Tony was always charming,” Charles says absently, but his eyes have a faraway look to them, which means he’s thinking very hard about something.

“The Keflars were friendly despite their reputation,” Erik says quietly, his gaze flicking down to the surface of the table, “if he was as brilliant as you say, I’m sure they took him in readily.”

Charles blinks, coming out of thought, and gives his hand another meaningful squeeze.

“Then what?” Logan asks bluntly.  “You said he’s still alive.”

Rogers nods, a shadow crossing his face.  “I hadn’t heard from him in awhile, and then out of the blue three days ago, he sent me this.”  He taps the surface of the table, and the screen lights up, pulling up a recording of a transmission.  Rogers swipes his fingertips across the glass to swivel the video and slides it across the table towards them.  “It took me two days to decode his encryptions on the file,” he says heavily, looking and sounding as if he hates himself, “and by then it was too late.”

Erik wants to ask him what exactly he means by that, but then the transmission is replaying.

“Steve,” a man with wild brown hair and intense dark eyes says, speaking quickly, and he looks like he hasn’t slept in three days, “I’ve tried everything and they won’t _listen_ to me, damn it, but I know I’m right because I’m always right and the Nyrulians are coming, they’ve been sensing us out for a week now and only Ed will give me the time of day.”  He stops, running his hands through his hair several times, the motion quick and twitchy.

Erik feels as if his heart is caught in his throat. 

“I’m leaving the Hejmo.  I know you’re going to say that I should stay and help and do whatever I can and I get that, alright, I know I’m a fucking asshole for leaving but Ed’s telling me to go and I need you to do me a favor even though I don’t deserve a favor from you but just this once, just, please.  Find Charles and that douchebag War-Prince he’s been in love with his whole damn life and tell them to get the _fuck_ out, they’re not safe, and trust me on that.”  He stops again, looking over his shoulder at something out of view.  “Alright, alright, I’ve got to go.  I’ll send you my coordinates once I can.  Fuck, Steve, I’m sorry.  I’m sorry.”

The transmission cuts.

Erik’s ears are ringing; a sort of white noise, and beside him, Charles’ face is ashen.  Scott and Logan are still staring down at the screen blankly and at the head of the table Rogers has slumped back in his chair, one hand covering his eyes.

“He knew,” Erik says into the silence, and it’s odd how calm his voice is because he does not feel remotely calm at all, “he knew that the Nyrulians were going to attack the Hejmo and he—”

“Edgar listened,” Charles says, gripping his hand, “Edgar told him to go, Erik, Tony wouldn’t lie about that—”

“He could have contacted the Fleet,” Erik cuts him off harshly, but the harsh tone isn’t meant for Charles, it’s meant for the missing engineer, “three days would’ve been more than enough, if he’d stopped being a _coward_ for—”

“If I know Tony as well as I think I do, he’s drinking himself to death right now over it,” Rogers says wearily, “and hates himself more than you could imagine—”

“Urgent transmission, sir,” a voice over the comm says suddenly, “redirected from the Heartsteel.”

Rogers frowns, sitting up straighter.  “Patch it through.”

The screen on the table flickers once and then they’re all staring at Paladin Nicholas Fury.  His single eye goes straight to Charles.  “Prince Deputy Commander Xavier you are hereby stripped of all rank and decorum and are ordered to report immediately back to the Orbit Base Strontium where you will be placed under arrest for providing aid facilitating the escape of the criminal Cain Marko.”

 

X

 

Charles’ hand hurts.  Erik is gripping it so tight his knuckles are white.  There’s a ringing noise in Charles’ ears that covers every other noise.

Shock.  He is in shock.

He stares at Erik’s hand, gripping his in his lap.  His other hand, the left, rests limp on the table.  Slowly, it feels, like dragging through molasses, Charles flicks his eyes up to his left hand, pale against the opaque glass.

He feels the vibration, abruptly, and his eyes snap up.

Steve is standing up, face contorted with rage, and oh no, goddamn it, this is how he got himself sent out to this post to begin with.

Just like that, Charles snaps out of it, and in a blink he is again listening to what is happening.

What’s happening is complete and bare-faced insubordination from one Paladin Steve Rogers and one War Prince Erik Lehnsherr.  What Logan and Scott are doing god only knows, but it involves a whole lot of yelling.

Charles pushes himself to his feet, raising his free hand to stop everyone else talking for a second.  As silence settles in the conference room, he takes a long moment to compose himself and shake off the last dregs of pervasive shock making his mind slow and grinding, like the filth-covered innards of an old mechanical clock.  He stares at the table, and breathes, and blinks slowly.

It’s only a moment later that he remembers to shake off Erik’s hand, and only then does he turn to Fury’s blank face on the screen.

“Sir, I assure you, I didn’t even know Marko has escaped.  I give you my word, I had no part on this.”

“Well, considering the circumstances your word is less than impeccable, Deputy Commander.”

“And who the fuck let him escape in the first place, huh?” Logan growls.

Fury’s black eye flicks to Logan.  “Legionnaire Howlett, open your mouth again and I will see you grounded for six months for insubordination, insolence, and an uncanny inability to _respect your superiors_.  I’m not your friend, Legionnaire, so don’t think I’ll be lenient on your shitty behavior.”

Logan looks ready to open his mouth again, so Charles raises both his hands this time.

“Paladin Fury, I’ve been on the Heartsteel and accompanied at all times since or departure from the Oh-Bee.  I have proof that—”

“Oh, no doubt you’ve been _well accompanied_ all along, Prince Xavier,” interrupts Fury, with a definite note of contempt in his voice that makes Erik slither slowly to his feet, eyes glittering.  Charles angles himself to face Fury better, while covering Erik from the screen.  He reaches out with his right hand and finds Erik’s wrist, and squeezes it.

“Sir, you have nothing but circumstantial evidence,” Steve says firmly, straightening to his whole, not negligible height, and crossing his arms.  Charles knows that little furrow between his brows, and the stubborn thin line of his lips.

“Paladin Rogers, the mere fact I have any sort of evidence should be sufficient,” Fury replies, eye pinning Steve where he stands.  “I gave you an order.  Arrest Prince Deputy Commander Charles Xavier and deliver him to my Ionstar post haste, or else I’ll have you tried for willful disobedience and aiding and abetting a fugitive criminal.”

“ _Alleged_ ,” Erik growls, and Charles feels him twist his wrist to break free, and squeezes harder. “ _Alleged_ criminal.”

Fury gives him a long, hard look.  “You lot are the worst, most insubordinate officers in the Fleet.  I gave you your orders.  You have twenty-four hours to make it happen, or you can consider all your asses grounded—and with a record like the fine Legionnaires Summers and Howlett, that might well mean grounded _for good_.”

A beat of silence.  “And don’t even think I failed to notice the fact you are already obviously out of your assigned post, unless the Americium up and decided to go for a visit, which I happen to know for certain it didn’t.  Keep on adding to the pile, boys, you’re doing _swell_.”

The transmission cuts out.  Charles is left stiff with the shock of what Fury has just said—of course, he knows Logan ad Scott were just building it up, but he hadn’t thought it had gotten that bad, just yet.  It’s actually not surprising, now he thinks about it.  The two have done enough horrifically out-of-protocol things to land them in the brig a few hundred times, had Erik not been inclined to overlook their flaws in favor of their immense talents.

Fury is, obviously, not thus inclined.

Steve turns and leans his hands on the glossy glass table, frowning.  His eyes shoot up to Charles, as blue as his uniform.  Charles feels as though the Paladin is seeing right through him.

“ _Did_ you help him?”

Charles feels a brief wave of dizziness.

“How can you even ask?” Scott demands in a shout.  “You _know_ what he did to Charles, how can you _ask_ that?”

“I have to,” Steve grinds out, straightening again.  “For my own peace of mind and because, if nothing else, one of us here should be sticking to protocol, and it’s obviously not going to be one of _you_.”

That sounds like the Steve Charles knows.  He will do what he must do, and he will be the light of reason when everyone else falls apart, the one steady rock in the stream.

This time, when Steve turns back to him, Charles is prepared, and feels firmer.

“Did you help him?”

“I didn’t.”

Steve stares at him for another long moment, stony and so cold he’s almost alien, and finally nods, mask breaking away into a dismayed grimace.

“He gave me the order,” he says, spreading his hands.  “I can’t disobey it, Charles.”

“What?” Erik hisses.

“No, I know.”  Charles lets himself fall down to the chair, dropping an elbow to the table and his forehead to his palm.  “I know, I understand.”

“No,” Erik’s hand fists at the shoulder of Charles’ uniform, bunching and wrinkling the fabric.  “Absolutely not.  It’ll take weeks for him to be declared innocent.  It’ll run his reputation and name through the mud.”

Steve runs his hand through his well-combed blond hair, sighing.

“I don’t think it’ll be that bad,” he says.  “And, to be perfectly honest, I don’t know that we have any other options.  We got our orders directly from a Paladin.  We can’t just… ignore them.”

“Actually,” Logan starts, “it’s fairly fucking simple.  You just look the other way like any decent friend instead of fucking throwing Charles in jail!”

“Then I might as well put you all in jail, and then step in myself and throw away the key,” Steve argues.

“And then who’s going to find Cain and turn him in to prove I’m innocent?” Charles reasons, staring up at Erik.

The War-Prince is stiff, jaw working as he grinds his teeth, eyes fixed on Charles.  His fist on Charles’ shoulder is heavy, now, and the Prince realizes Erik is leaning on him, as if he needs the support.

He hates the idea of leaving Erik alone when he needs him the most—after the destruction of the Hejmo, after the devastating loss of Edgar and his people.  But Steve has a point—and Charles knows they’ve been riding on an edge since they returned from Nyrulian territory, and he can tell the edge is beginning to cut them.

“The only way to prove I didn’t help Cain is to find him and make him confess,” he starts, and Erik sneers darkly.

“Oh, trust me, when I find him, he’ll _confess_.”

Charles chooses not to respond to that, because he knows there will be no way to convince Erik not to exert a considerable amount of violence upon the body of one fugitive Cain Marko if— _when_ he finds him.

Steve spread his hands.  “Charles is right.  Someone needs to find Marko and drag him back.  I was ordered to bring Charles in, but none of you.  I can let you all go.”

“And we already abandoned our post,” Scott chimes in, shrugging.  “We might as well go hunting for that asshole.”

Logan crosses his arms, nodding.  “Yeah, going to hell already in flames and all that.”

Erik leans his other hand on the table, face a blank mask.  He’s weighing his options, Chares knows, trying to find a way to figure this out that will let him keep Charles and exonerate him of all charges at the same time.  If there is indeed one way, Charles can’t think of it.

Charles wishes desperately that they could be alone.  Were it just the two of them, he knows he could soothe Erik back down to his rational, strategic way of thinking and get him to agree to this.  But he’d have to touch him, let him crush him close, and he can’t do that here in front of Scott and Logan and Steve.  For all he loves his friends, some things he knows are meant to be kept in the intimacy between lovers.

“But wait,” Scott holds up his hands.  “We have more problems.  Even more fucking problems.  We still need to find Tony.”

Good god, Tony!  All thoughts of the genius mechanic had fled Charles’ mind with Fury’s announcement of his arrest warrant.  It might be a logical reaction, but Charles still feels terrible about it.  Charles does have a tendency to feel terrible about random things that are, according to Erik, _not even his goddamn fault, Charles, and stop fretting and come to bed already_.

“Steve, do you have any idea where he might be?”

“That transmission came from the Delta-Omega sector,” Steve answers.  “There’s nothing there, I checked.  I’m left to assume he’s cloaked his ship somehow, which I guess is perfectly viably considering he worked with the Keflars.”

“Oh, if he’s out in space like that he’s probably on his fucking asteroid,” Logan mutters.

Erik’s head swiveled towards him in a way that even Charles is forced to label creepy, like a well-oiled droid.  “His asteroid.”

“He owns an asteroid,” Charles answers, somewhat distractedly, busy making calculations.

“He owns an asteroid.” Erik repeats in a flat deadpan.

“He inherited it.”  Scott shrugs.

“Of course he did,” Erik says, but he sounds skeptical.

“Tony’s father was very rich,” Steve offers, in the fashion of an excuse. “It’s not Tony’s fault.”

“You know what I inherited from my dad?” Logan asks Scott, conversationally.  “A box of cigars.  Empty box of cigars.”

Scott stares at him.  “Heartwarming story, bro.”

Charles presses his hands palm-down on the table, mind moving at break-neck speeds.  He glances at Erik.  Back to the table, and then double-checks on Erik and stares at him.

“Help me out here,” he says quietly.  “What are the chances we can make it to the Delta-Omega sector and back and then Steve can take me over to the Ionstar’s location, all in the space of twenty-four hours?”

Erik’s eyes stare blankly for a moment, mathematical calculations unfolding across his mind with the ease of long practice and natural talent.  Charles himself isn’t all that good with numbers; he’s not ashamed to admit it.

“It’ll be tight,” Erik admits finally, glancing over at Steve.  “You’d have to come with us, with one of the Americium’s deep-space-faring shuttles.  Otherwise we’d lose too much time doubling back over to the base.”

“I’m coming,” Steve says firmly.  “If Tony’s still out there, I have to find him.”

 

X

 

And so this is how they end up with a hangar full of star-spangled shuttle (Logan’s words) and flying through hyperspace in clear disobedience of express directly relayed orders.  If anyone in Command realizes what they’re doing, they’ll be lucky not to be stripped of rank and dumped on an Oh-Bee for an undetermined amount of time.  It’s not like they’ve not been piling up issues over issues for weeks.  Years even, if you count Scott and Logan.

Erik sits at his command chair, feet firmly planted on the ground, fingers laced in front of his mouth.  He doesn’t usually slouch like this in his chair, but he feels like he needs to keep his hands laced, or else have them shake.

Charles is innocent, that much is as certain in his mind as the knowledge that a star is flaming gas.  Which, a rather unfortunate comparison, he can see that.  But his mind is not exactly working perfectly right now.  He is off-balance and twisted and he can’t find his center, can’t right his axis.

The fact that Charles is leaving isn’t helping.  Erik keeps going over it, searching nearly desperately for a way to look at it from a different angle, but no matter how much he turns it around he can’t find a way to avoid it.  An arrest warrant for Charles has been issued.  If Rogers doesn’t show up at the Ionstar with him in—here Erik glances at the watch on top of the viewscreen—twenty hours, they’ll all be arrested, including Rogers.

Charles is right.  Someone has to be out here in space trying to find that waste of space and oxygen that is Cain Marko, and dragging him back to the Oh-Bee for trial and interrogation.

Erik wouldn’t trust _anyone_ with Charles’ freedom.  Charles is _his_ best friend, _his_ Deputy Commander, _his lover_.  It’s more than just his duty to find this imbecile and turn him over to prove Charles’ innocence, he feels the urge to do it because it’s Charles.  It should always be Erik saving Charles, Erik thinks.

Because when Erik isn’t around, Charles does completely _stupid shit_ like blowing up a whole fucking ship just to get away, and nearly killing himself in the process, for God’s sake, that man can’t be left alone _anywhere_.

Tactics and strategy are things Erik excels at.  Too many people confuse one with the other.  Strategy is the overall, large scheme.  Tactics are the small actions you do to get that strategy to unfold correctly and lead you to victory.

He can tell this is good tactic move; give Fury one thing he wants, keep his eye pinned to Charles, and run around the Universe freely looking for Marko.  When victory will be to prove Charles’ innocence to the Fleet, this is a good move.  It _is_.

That doesn’t mean Erik has to like it.

In fact, he hates it.  He loathes it.  The whole fucking thing.  If he doesn’t kill Marko upon sight of him, the douchebag can consider himself exceedingly lucky.

Charles is not on the bridge right now.  His conspicuous absence is making Erik restless.  The replacement officer is of course one of the best—Erik has nothing _but_ the best in this ship—but he’s still not Charles, damn it.

Erik closes his eyes and tries to center himself, to find that spot inside where everything is at peace and he can think clearly.  He resents that he can only find it when Charles is around.  He should be perfectly capable of being a calm functioning human being on his own.

Raven makes a chime, and the viewscreen changes to a star-chart of the asteroids and space debris floating aimlessly in the Delta-Omega sector.

“We’ve arrived at destination,” she says coolly.  “This is a chart of all the bodies of important mass in the sector.”

Erik stands up and looks at the chart.  They all look the same.  No way to determine which is solid rock and which is a disguised space station.

“Run a heat scan of the area.”

Raven obeys, and the viewscreen turns into what looks like a topographic map of black and blues.  No red anywhere.  Erik frowns.  None of those rocks register any heat signatures.  He’s beginning to assume Tony Stark might be a man capable of disguising even that, or somehow minimizing the heat leakage, which would be break-through and brilliant for starships, when his communicator buzzes.

He glances at the screen.  It’s Charles.  He doesn’t even think before putting it through.

“Yes?”

“I’m looking at the chart,” Charles says calmly.  At least one of them can be.  “It’s the one on the A-5 quadrant of the screen.”

Scott zooms in even before Erik can gesture, always prompt to do his duty when he isn’t being a complete and utter imbecile, which is unfortunately rare enough.

Erik scrutinizes the rock.  It looks exactly as boring as the ones that surround it.

“How do you know?”

“Steve’s been there before, he knows it.”

Erik doesn’t question it.  “Hail it, Legionnaire Cassidy.”

“Um.  Alright.  I’ll hail the rock.  Sure.  Sir.”

“And be _quiet_ about it.”

“Sure thing.  Sir.  Yessir.”

There is a tense moment as the communication goes out.  No response.  Cassidy makes the standard full three calls, then the threat of hostility upon the failure to respond.  The asteroid remains, unsurprisingly, silent.

“Well, that was anticlimactic,” Logan snorts.

“Shut up,” Erik orders.  “Charles, it’s not responding.”

“Damn it.  Okay, try something different from the standard message.  Tell him it’s Charles Xavier and Steve Rogers hailing him.”

“No, wait,” Roger’s voice interrupts. “He won’t believe it.  Tell him—tell him Francis is here.”

A momentary pause.

“Excuse me?” Erik asks—perfectly politely, he does believe.

“Uh,” Charles hesitates.  “Yes.  That should definitely work on Tony.  Please, Erik.”

“Alright,” Erik says reluctantly, gesturing at Cassidy to go ahead.  The red-head gives him a look as though he thinks his Commander might have lost his mind.  Erik swiftly kills it with a cold, pointed glare, and the CO scrambles around to his screen and punches the message in, wordless.

“Standard three-times hailing frequency applies,” Erik says, returning to his captain’s chair and rubbing his forehead briefly.

Cassidy nods.

They only get to make one call.  Almost immediately, the asteroid is sending back directions, computerized from what it looks like, as if an answering machine is taking care of the communications.  It’s not insane, considering the whole thing is apparently inhabited by only one person.  Surely not even Tony Stark can handle a thing of that size all on his own.

The message reads: ‘Boarding permission granted.  Standard asteroid protocol stands.  Shuttle-port number five unlocked.’

“Right,” Cassidy spreads his hands.  “Okay, the rock talks.  I mean, what the hell?”

Erik gets up from his chair and pulls his uniform down to fit perfectly upon his rigidly set shoulders, snug along the straight line of his spine.

“I will be boarding the asteroid myself—without an escort,” he adds sharply when Logan opens his mouth.  “With Prince Xavier.  You are not allowed or welcome to monitor our frequencies.  You will wait for my word before you take on any action or decision, unless I am compromised.”

 _I am compromised_ , he thinks grimly as he turns to walk to the lift.   _I am compromised and I will take this ship down with me, damn it.  I need to get my head straight_.

Divorcing feeling from rational thought when it comes to Charles, however, is a task only a titan could undertake, and Erik is no titan.  He’s barely a man even by his own reckoning, and that only because Charles believes he is one.

He catches movement out of the corner of his eye and looks over his shoulder.  Cassidy is standing, at parade rest, hands held loosely behind his back and eyes blank.  Erik stills.

“Permission to speak freely, sir?” the CO asks.

Erik grits his teeth, but this—he owes them this.  This crew went with him through hell and back to get Charles, and unbeknownst to them he is now putting them again in peril.  He cannot tell them the truth—that he is disobeying orders, disregarding protocol, and practically going rogue for Charles.  The least they know, the better.  It’ll keep them clean when Erik has to pay for this—and he _will_ pay for it.

So Erik turns away from the lift doors and faces his CO, clasping his own hands behind his back.

“Granted.”

Cassidy relaxes, eyes skittering about the bridge restlessly.  They linger, Erik notices, on Charles’ station.

“Sir, what—what the hell is going on here?  Where’s Prince Xavier?  Where are we, and what are we doing here?  This is so different from out first relayed mission order, it’s insane.”

Erik inhales deeply and exhales slowly.

“Prince Xavier has been temporarily removed from duty due to reasons beyond his or my orbit of influence,” he says calmly.  He ignores the dismayed looks all across the bridge.  “He will be abandoning the ship for a short period of time to see to these matters.  Legionnaire Rasputin will be taking over his duties in the meantime,” he adds, inclining his head towards Piotr in Charles’ station.  The man nods, looking distinctly unhappy considering he basically just got a rank boost.

“As for the actions taking place at this moment—I’m afraid that is privileged information.  You may of course set it down on your own logs.”  He pauses, considers.  “In fact, I expect you to.  You will fulfill your duties at the best of your abilities, regardless of who commands it—and I _know_ your best.”  He lets his eyes travel slowly across the faces in the bridge, letting that sink in.

The message is clear: whatever I do, no matter whether you think I have the right of it, or whether you are willing to forgive me because I am doing it for Charles, or merely because it is me doing it—you will follow protocol.

Erik nods one last time, throws an icy look at Logan when he means to stand up, and leaves the bridge.

Within minutes, he and Charles are boarding a Heartsteel shuttle at the hangar.  Charles and Rogers insist it’s better if Rogers stays out of it for now, if Charles goes to speak to Tony on his own.  Erik is pleased to see Charles immediately assumes Erik is coming with him; good, because that would have been one thorny argument.

A moment later, he is piloting the shuttle, using short thrusts and letting it coast peacefully towards the asteroid.

“Logan will be going with you,” he says eventually, thoughtful.

Charles frowns.  “Bad idea.  You need him more.”

“I’m not going to let you go there alone, Charles.”

“Erik, it’s the Ionstar,” Charles says patiently.  “Fury might be a lot of things, but he’s anything but careless.  Nothing is going to happen to me under his nose.  You know that.”

“You shouldn’t be alone,” Erik insists, stubborn, hands flexing on the controls.

Charles sighs.  “Erik, you’re going to need Logan and Scott.  You can’t let anyone else in the Heartsteel know what you’re doing, going after Cain.  You’ll need them more than I will, and in any case—Steve already said he’s staying with me until this whole thing is cleared.  Steve wouldn’t let anything happen to me.  You can trust that.”

Erik says nothing.  Charles reaches over and settles his hand gently on his right thigh, squeezing once, lightly.

“We’ll figure this out,” he says quietly.

“I know that,” Erik snaps, and grimaces.  “I’m sorry. It’s just—”

He runs out of words.

“I know,” Charles sighs.  “I don’t want this either, but for now, it’s what we’ve got.  And Erik—we’ll work it out.”

Erik exhales loudly. “We better.  Quickly.  I’ll murder Logan and Scott if you’re not here to stop me in less than two weeks.”

Charles’ brows shoot up.  “Two weeks?  I give you five days.”

“Ye of little faith,” Erik rolls his eyes.

“I think you overestimate your patience, my friend.”

“I think you underestimate my urge to rain violence upon their sorry asses,” Erik counters flatly.

He doesn’t mean it.  Mostly.  He mostly doesn’t mean it.

Another thruster pulse gets them in view of shuttle-port five.  Erik deftly manipulates the shuttle into alignment with a combination of thrusters and coasting.  He might not be as good a pilot as Logan, but he certainly can pilot to save his life.  They connect easily, and only a moment later the pressure of port and shuttle stabilize—top-notch technology, if it takes that small a window of time—and the port is welcoming them.

The port is deserted, but the screen in the wall by the door indicates they are awaited in the bridge.  It provides directions, thank god, of how to get there.

“You could always change their rotations and avoid them for a while,” Charles suggests as they more through the corridors.

“True.”

“And you should make sure Cassidy and Drake leave when their shift is over, or they’ll stay until they drop.”

“Yes, Charles.”

“And remember to make McCoy stay out of the MedBay for _at least_ eight hours a day, otherwise he stays there all night—”

“What are you, their mother?”  Erik gives him a pointed look.  “Stop coddling my crew.”

“It’s just that some of them are so young,” Charles frets, no doubt thinking of seventeen-year-old Cassidy and sixteen-year-old Robert Drake, only two of their precocious genius talents.

“Yes, well, young or not they are legally adults and members of Starfleet, so stop—”

He stops talking.

The walls at either side of them, behind and in front, have erupted into what looks like rows upon rows of movement-triggered laser guns.  All of them are trained on them.

“Charles?” he mutters, eerily still.

“Tony, it’s just Erik, he’s my friend, you’ve heard of him!”  Charles goes to raise his hands, but the lasers all flick immediately to him, and he stops mid-motion.  “It’s okay!  Tony, we’re friends!  It’s Charles!”

Erik reaches out and grabs his wrist urgently.  The guns are all around them.  His best chance might be to shove Charles up against a wall and cover him himself.  If worst comes to worst, he figures, at least Charles will make it.

But the guns don’t shoot.  Instead, a control panel to their left and ahead opens, and someone tall and broad-shouldered strolls out lazily.  In his hands he holds a large long-range phaser.  That thing can burn through both of their bodies in one blast.  Immediately assessing the greatest danger, Erik pulls on Charles’ wrist and gets in front of him.

“Well, well, well.  If it isn’t my lucky day,” the stranger drawls.

“Identify yourself immediately,” Erik growls.  “You are threatening violence upon two ranking Starfleet officers.  The mildest legal punishment is imprisonment for three to five months for a Prince and six months to a year for a War Prince.  Desist.”

“You’d have to catch me first, asshole,” the stranger grins.  “And you’re not gonna catch me.  Xavier, sweetheart, step over here, will ya?  We can do this happen the easy way, or I can blast a hole through your prickly friend here.”

“Who are you?” Charles stands up straighter, pale-faced but firm.

“I’m the guy with the huge phaser, sweets.  I think doing what I tell you is the smart thing to do.  Aren’t you smart, dollface?”

“Stop,” Erik snarls, hand moving slowly, slowly, towards the phaser at his hip.

“You got ten more seconds to choose,” the stranger says.  “’Cause after that, I just grab you and go.”

Erik’s hand tightens on Charles’ wrist.  No.  Absolutely not.  This asshole, whoever he is, is _not touching him_.

“What happens in ten seconds?” Charles asks wearily, just as Erik says:

“You’ll have to kill me.”

The stranger grins, “Alrighty!”

Brusquely, the deck beneath their feet rocks sharply to the left.  Erik crashes against the wall, feels his shoulder slide neatly out of its socket.  The pain blinds him, but it’s nothing— _nothing_ —compared to the searing blast of white-hot _agony_ shooting maddeningly up from his side.  His legs give out; his knees hit the deck hard, and he tries to brace himself with his right hand but his whole right side is suddenly numb.  He manages, only barely, to twist himself so as to not land on his face.

Instead he falls on his right side.

Breath catches on his throat, the pain too sharp to allow him even a gasp.

“Erik!” Charles’ hand is on his left arm, and then it’s gone.

“Tell your pal Logan that Victor says hi,” the stranger says jovially, nearby, and Charles gasps.  Something sharp lands on Erik’s shoulder—is that a kick?

Erik blacks out.

He might be out for seconds or hours at a time.  It doesn’t matter.   By the time he wakes up, Charles, Victor, and Tony Stark are gone.





	8. Or die trying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A COUPLE OF THINGS PLEASE LISTEN: 
> 
> As I'm sure you've probably noticed (oops), our updates have drastically slowed down. This is just something that unfortunately cannot be avoided, for several reasons--Pan has started up university again for the fall, and is also signed up for the Big Bang, and thus will be splitting her attention between classwork, JJ, and a BB. Reg is also a busy lady with multiple personal RL things, so please be patient with us. This fic is NOT going to be abandoned and we have a clear plan till the end, so just stick with us and stay tuned. Thank you all!
> 
> WARNINGS for violence in this chapter.

Scott is pretty _fucking_ angry right now.

He’s angry a lot of the time, but he’s pretty sure that the only other time he’s felt this sort of pure, unrefined rage was the day Cain Marko had hit Charles in the back of the head with a phaser and jetted him out in an E-pod to the Nyrulians.

Kind of funny how both instances of near-blinding anger are associated with Charles Xavier getting the very short end of the proverbial stick.

“This is bullshit,” he snaps, even as he follows the path of the shuttle as it jets towards the asteroid, “seriously bullshit.  Has anyone else stopped to just think, for a second, about how fucking ridiculous this is?”

The bridge is deathly silent.  Everyone else is watching the shuttle containing Erik and Charles approaching the asteroid base on the main screen, faces pale and worried.  The only person moving is Steve, who had come up to the bridge shortly after Erik’s departure, pacing back and forth and looking as if he hates himself.

Well, he fucking _should_ hate himself, and come to think of it, Scott has a few choice words for him.

“Steve,” he says, gratified when the Paladin’s head shoots up immediately, “what the _fuck_ are you thinking?”

“Keep it down,” Logan growls in warning, but his eyes flick over to Steve as well, since he’s probably wondering the same goddamn thing.

Steve sighs but comes over to them so that their conversation can be at least a little more contained.  He looks exhausted.  “I don’t know anymore.”

“Fury accuses Charles of helping Marko escape and the first goddamn words out of your mouth are ‘did you help him’?” Scott hisses, eyes alight.  Just the memory of Charles’ face after that particular question makes him want to punch the Paladin.  “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

Steve drags a hand down his face.  “We’ve already had this conversation, Scott.  I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t have flat-out asked him like that, but I needed to know for certain.”

“I should throw you out an airlock,” Scott says, disgusted.  “Are you his friend or not?”

“I said that I was sorry,” Steve says tightly, leveling Scott with a piercing look, “but we’ve all already agreed to this.”

“Fury _has_ to know that his accusation is bullshit,” Scott snaps, even though he makes sure to keep his voice down, “he knows that there’s no fucking way Charles would help that scumbag escape, and besides that, he knows Charles has been way out here in the boonies on his orders.  What the fuck is he trying to prove?”

“Charles and I were discussing this before we arrived here,” Steve answers heavily, “and we both agreed that Fury’s accusation _is_ suspicious, given what he knows about Charles and Marko.  He’s playing his own game, but we’re not sure to what end.  Either way, the only way to find out is for Charles to turn himself in.  That will give you all the time to find and re-capture Marko to set things straight.”

There’s a pause where Scott fumes silently.  It’s fucking annoying how logical everyone is being about this shit.  It’s almost a shame that Charles is the tamer to Erik’s dragon; although on second thought, Scott bets that the War-Prince is probably still up for a big blow-out eruption sooner or later.  He’d seen how tightly Erik had been gripping Charles’ shoulder.

Up on the main screen, the shuttle has docked at the asteroid.  Scott doesn’t even want to know what kind of conversation is taking place between the War-Prince and the Prince.  Tony Stark had better be ready to deal with a shit ton of backlash.

“What about what Stark said?” Logan says, so abruptly that Scott blinks.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Scott asks bluntly.  Even Steve looks faintly lost.

“Got overlooked after Fury’s call,” Logan says, chewing on his cigar, “but ain’t it interesting how Stark wanted Steve to warn Erik ’n Charles to _get the fuck out_?  Any idea what the hell that means?”

Scott has a distinct sinking feeling.  Now that Logan’s brought it up—so _that’s_ what he’s been brooding away about over there—he remembers Tony’s warning very well.  He’d forgotten all about it in the aftermath of Fury’s interruption, but now he recalls how stressed Tony had seemed.

He’d said that Erik and Charles weren’t safe.

Steve shakes his head slowly, looking as if he feels exactly the same as Scott does.  “No, I don’t.”

“Wonder if he meant they weren’t safe from the Nyrulians,” Logan continues casually, and the only reason Scott knows he isn’t is his clenched fist on top of his leg, knuckles white and straining, “or from the Fleet.”

There is another silence, and this time Scott wants to scream.

There are too many games being played here, and there is too much—too many lives—at stake.

“What do we do?” Scott asks into the silence, and he’s trying really goddamn hard not to raise his voice enough for the rest of the bridge to hear.

Steve’s face is pale, but he looks determined.  “We have to just go by the rules.  If Fury wants Charles—”

“Legionnaires,” Raven says suddenly, her usual serene voice almost _urgent_ , what the hell, “incoming emergency live transmission from JARVIS.”

Scott whirls around in his chair to face the main screen, and hears the bridge collectively draw in a sharp breath as Erik, Charles, and another man come into view.

“—guy with the huge phaser, sweets,” the man is saying, his gravelly voice mocking as he leers at Charles, “I think doing what I tell you is the smart thing to do.  Aren’t you smart, dollface?”

Scott isn’t even in the same damn room as the guy, and all of the hairs on the back of his neck are standing on end.  He doesn’t _like_ this man; something about him puts every single one of Scott’s nerves on edge because there is something very wrong here, and Charles and Erik are being held at gunpoint by the source of it, too far out of reach for any of them to do anything about it.

Logan’s cigar falls out of his mouth and hits the station top with a soft _clink_.

“Stop,” Erik snarls on the screen.  He’s holding onto Charles’ wrist, and it’s clear that he’s pulled the Prince behind him, putting his body directly between Charles and the threat.  His other hand is slowly, _slowly_ reaching for the phaser at his belt, and Scott holds his breath.

“You got ten more seconds to choose,” the man says, sounding amused, and Jesus, his phaser is large enough to blow a hole through both Erik and Charles in a single blast.  “’Cause after that, I just grab you and go.”

“Oh my god,” Steve says faintly somewhere behind Scott.

“What happens in ten seconds?” Charles asks warily, and Scott sees the exact second that the Prince realizes that there is fucking _nothing_ to be done, because he sees the shift in Charles’ eyes, displayed so clearly by the main screen’s crystal-clear picture.

And here Scott, Logan, Steve, and the rest of the bridge crew sit, unable to do anything but watch.

“You’ll have to kill me.” Erik says.

“No,” Logan snarls at the screen, snapping out of his blank staring, “don’t fucking goad him, he’ll—”

“Alrighty!” the man says cheerfully with a grin, and then half the bridge is shouting in alarm as the picture distorts wildly with the sound of a phaser blast.

Scott can only watch in horror as Erik hits the wall and then crumbles, falling first to his knees before collapsing entirely, red blood beginning to pool beneath him.  

“Erik!”  Charles drops down beside the War-Prince, reaching for him, but then the man is there, grabbing the Prince by the shoulder and wrenching him away.

“Tell your pal Logan that Victor says hi,” the man says jovially, and Charles chokes out a gasp when the man—Victor—kicks Erik in the side.  The War-Prince, barely hanging onto consciousness, goes out like a light.

Scott looks over at Logan, because holy shit, what the _fuck_.

“Erik!” Charles struggles to his feet, his bad leg obviously giving him trouble, and Scott can barely watch this anymore, because he already knows how this is going to end—Cassidy and several other members of the bridge crew are shouting for something to be done, but Scott, Logan, and Steve remain frozen in place, unable to look away because no matter how fast they run, there is no way they’ll reach the asteroid base in time.

Victor grabs the Prince again, twisting his fist into Charles’ uniform jacket.  “Come on, sweetheart, he’s as good as de—”

Charles punches him in the face, fist connecting solidly with a crunch.  “Let me go, you bastard.”

Logan swears.  “No, you idiot, don’t try to—”

“Well if that’s how you’re going to play,” Victor says, coldly calm, and then he slams Charles against the wall, pushing him up so far that the Prince’s legs are dangling.

“Don’t come after me,” Charles gasps out, even as he kicks with his good leg, nailing Victor in the gut, and Scott realizes that he’s talking to _them_ , “get Erik, save Erik—”

Victor hoists him up and slams him back against the wall again, so hard that Charles’ head hits the panel with an audible crack.  “They ain’t going to save him or you, dollface,” he says, still deathly calm, “and you’re lucky that I’m supposed to bring you in alive, or otherwise I’d rip your throat out now.”  He reaches down.  “Leg trouble, sweetheart?”

Scott doesn’t see what Victor does to Charles’ leg.  Maybe he’s a fucking coward, but he closes his eyes, just as he hears several people on the bridge gasp.  Then Charles screams.

When Scott looks again, the Prince is utterly limp in Victor’s gasp.  Probably passed out from the pain.  Scott is fucking glad he didn’t watch, because he already feels sick.

Victor lets Charles slide down the wall to the ground, and then grabs him by one arm, starting to drag him away.  He looks up and for a moment he’s grinning right at them all, and a chill runs down Scott’s spine because there is nothing but madness in that man’s gaze, wild and terrible.  Then he lifts his rifle phaser and shoots out the camera, and the screen goes black.

“We have to go after him,” Steve says immediately, sounding shaken, “we can stop him before he even gets away.”

“He’ll be long gone by the time we get there,” Logan says dully.  He looks like he’s been completely and utterly drained.  “You’d have to shoot him down as he takes off, and then you’d kill Charles.”

“Then we give chase,” Steve replies adamantly, “we can’t allow him to—”

“Fuck you, Steve,” Scott snaps as he whirls around, glaring up at the pale Paladin, and even though his next words make him feel like punching something, he continues, “you heard Charles.  I’ve already got my orders.  I’m going to go get my Commander.”

 

X

 

The first time Charles wakes, everything hurts so much that he blacks out again, spiraling back down into oblivion.

Perhaps it is better this way.

The second time Charles wakes, everything has been reduced to a dull throb that is still nearly unbearable, but manageable enough as to where he doesn’t pass out again right away.  His body feels like it went through a meat grinder and for a while he just lies where he’s been dumped, trying not to scream as he tests out parts of his body little by little, seeing what works.

His arms are wrenched behind his back and cuffed to stay there, but other than that everything seems to be in painfully working order.  He doesn’t even dare to try and move his bad leg yet.

Charles opens his eyes.

He’s lying face down on the floor, which takes him a few moments to work out.  He lifts his head, unable to keep the small noise of pain that slips past his lips automatically when the motion sends a hot burst of pain through his head.

“Charles, you’re awake,” a voice says from somewhere close overhead, and Charles is aware of a scuffling side, “sit up slowly, buddy, you’re alright.  Come on.”

It’s hard to maneuver himself up into a sitting position without moving his bad leg, without use of his arms, and the single instance he accidentally shifts it he nearly bites through his own lip trying not to scream.  He freezes for a moment, breathing harshly, and waiting for the lancing pain to fade a little before continuing to struggle upright.  Finally he’s up, leaning back against the wall of what appears to be a cargo hold, sitting next to none other than Tony Stark.

“I’ve got to stop waking up like this,” he says distantly, his voice coming out thin and weak.  His mouth feels dried out, his tongue cotton.  Just the act of sitting up has left him exhausted.

Tony cocks an eyebrow.  “You and that War-Prince must be into some weird shit.”  Then he realizes what he’s said, eyes widening.  “Oh god, Charles—”

Charles chokes out a laugh that sounds more like a sob, squeezing his eyes shut, because he can’t think about Erik right now, not when Erik—when Erik is—

Tony’s hands are cuffed behind his back as well but somehow they manage to huddle together, Charles dropping his head sideways onto Tony’s shoulder as he shakes.  It’s taking all of his concentrated effort not to let any more sobs escape, because if so much as one does he’s not sure that he’ll be able to stop, but now he keeps seeing Erik, collapsed down on the deck, and his blood, so much blood _everywhere_ —

Charles shakes, but he does not sob.

“Victor Creed is a bounty hunter,” Tony says after a few minutes, his voice idle and vague, as if his actual thoughts are a million light years away, which is normally the case for Tony, “the Nyrulians hired him.  They want me, they want you.”

“I know.” Charles says blankly.

Tony lifts his head, lets it drop dully back against the wall, eyes unblinking, staring up at the ceiling.  “You gonna cooperate?”

“No.”

Tony laughs, a bitter chuckle that falls out flat.  “They’re going to kill us both.”

Charles sits up, tilting his chin up and leaning his head back against the wall, eyes still closed.  An icy well of calm has settled in his stomach, and save for the physical pain, he feels numb.  It feels like every vivid emotions he knows he should feel, like panic, terror, the sinking feeling of loss and the anxiety born from uncertainty, have all sunk into that well, leaving him cold and empty.  A void.  A black hole.  “It doesn’t matter.”

Because it doesn’t.  He’s been stripped of his rank and if the Fleet didn’t entirely believe him to be a criminal they certainly will after he fails to present himself to Fury within the 24-hour time window.  And Erik…if Erik really is…

 _Just say it_ , he tells himself.  _Just say it.  Put it out there_.  “If Erik is dead, it doesn’t matter.”  The words hurt more than the way his leg is throbbing, but he says them without a single waver, opening his eyes to stare up at the ceiling.

He’d yelled for Erik to be saved back on the asteroid base.  He doesn’t know if anyone even heard him.  A phaser wound, from a gun that large and at that close of range…

“No,” Tony agrees softly, and distantly Charles is glad that for once the engineer has cut the bullshit, “it probably doesn’t.”

And that’s the thing about Tony.  He knows what matters, in and amongst all the daily bullshit they all deal with, he knows what’s important to whom, and it kills him to know, but he does.  He pays attention.  Because, like it or not, and he sure as hell doesn’t, Tony _cares_.

They’re silent for a few moments.

“Steve’s still alive,” Charles says, “that matters.”

“Steve’s going to follow the rules.” Tony says flatly.  He pauses, and Charles hears him swallow.  “And he’s not here, which is good.  Anywhere is better than here.”

Charles can’t bring himself to agree.  If there is a way for the Fleet to believe that he helped Cain Marko escape, then the Fleet has betrayed him.

Without Erik, there is no place for him there anyway.

“What do they want you for?” Charles asks, still somewhat blank.  “Ships?”

“Weapons.  And then the same reason they do you, probably.”

“Really?”

He feels it when Tony tenses.  “You don’t know.”

Charles brings his head back down, and looks over at him.  “What do you mean?”

Tony is looking back at him, something akin to horror flickering through his dark eyes.  “You don’t know why the Nyrulians want you.”

“They want my head,” Charles answers, “I blew up one of their ships.”

But Tony is shaking his head.  “Oh god— _fuck_ —no, it’s not just that, Charles.”

Charles stares at him.

Tony turns his head to look away, staring forward.  “They came for the Hejmo looking for very specific tech.  They blew it up when Ed refused to give it to them.”

“Tony.” Charles says.  There’s a point to this, and he’s already beginning to guess.

“God, I thought you knew,” Tony whispers, “since they’d captured you the first time.”

“I was told they wanted me to give them Starfleet channels and codes.”

Tony shakes his head again.  “I’m sure they wanted that as a side bonus, but Jesus, Charles.  They want the Mystique tech that your ship has.”

The icy well of calm tremors, as if it is very close to shattering.  “Other than the Keflars, no one knew about Raven’s true ability except Erik and me.”

“Ed told me,” Tony says, and he looks like he would put his head in his hands if he could, “before he kicked me off the Hejmo two days before—before the Nyrulians—”  Tony stops, breathes.  “Ed told me that he didn’t build a ship for Erik at all, but instead gave him an AI named Raven.  That he still requested that Erik name his ship _Heartsteel_.”

Charles doesn’t say anything for a long moment.  “And he told you why.” 

Tony nods.  “The meaning.  Yes.”  He swallows.  “Now do you see?”

“You’re implying that the Nyrulians know too.”  Calm.  He is calm.  He is nothing but calm.

Tony gives him a tired glance.  “You know how precise the Keflars are with their logs.  They record everything.  If shit didn’t get hacked—and if someone can fucking hack the Keflars, they deserve to have that info—then someone babbled.  Not that it matters _now_.  They know about the Mystique tech, and they know that you have it.”

“It doesn’t work like that, and they should know that if someone _babbled_.”

Tony shakes his head.  “ _Heartsteel_.”

Very suddenly, Charles sees.

Then he leans his head back against the wall again, closes his eyes, and laughs. 

It’s a horrible sound.

 

X

 

Waking up is like ascending from the depths of an ocean, drifting up closer and closer to a blurry light that only gradually comes into focus.  He doesn’t remember the sea very well, because he and his family only made the trek to the beach once when he was very small, but he does remember the hot, bright sun, the coarse sand beneath his toes, and the taste of salt on his lips.

 _Sea urchins like salt water_ , a small voice in the back of his head says, a random fact that seems relevant to nothing but at the same time feels vitally important, _they are primarily marine_.

Erik sits up abruptly as memory slams into him, which is a mistake because it makes his entire body give a horrible jolt that has him reeling for a moment, a sharp pain that makes him feel as if his insides are splitting open, but pain can be ignored for the time being because he needs—

“Shit, someone get him back down before he rips himself back open,” a voice says, and suddenly hands are on him.

“No,” Erik says sharply, even as spots dance across his vision.  After a moment he can make out Scott and Logan, and then McCoy hurrying towards them all with a tray of medical equipment.

“I’m gonna have to ask you to lie the fuck down, sir,” Scott says grimly, and he’s the one who is trying to get him to lie back again, pushing carefully but insistently at Erik’s shoulders.

“You’re in the Heartsteel’s medical bay, sir,” McCoy adds, “I’ve got you stitched up but you lost a lot of blood and actually shouldn’t even be awake, but if you keep trying to move you might end up ripping—”

“Charles.” Erik says, because he _needs to know_ where the Deputy is.  _His_ Deputy.

Everyone falls still.

“Gone,” Logan says, breaking the silence, his voice hoarse, “he’s gone.”

Erik grabs the tray out of McCoy’s hands and hurls it at the wall.

 

X

 

Meeting Edgar goes something like this.

Charles is freshly minted as a Graduate of High Distinction from the Imperial Academy and he’s only just put his new rank insignias onto his uniform jacket, and _Prince Charles Xavier_ still sounds funny and doesn’t quite roll off the tongue as it will one day; the idea of being a Prince too new and almost unreal.

“Are you sure—” he starts.

“If you ask me if I’m sure that I want you as my Deputy one more time,” Erik deadpans without looking up, “I will drop you on the nearest volcanically active moon that I can find.”

Charles flushes, and changes tracks.  “But are you sure you want me along for this?  I don’t want to intrude on—”

“I wouldn’t have brought you if I felt you’d be intruding,” Erik interrupts him again, “so stop it, Charles.  I want you there.  End of discussion.”

“Okay,” Charles agrees, and can’t help the feeling of warmth that slowly spreads through him at _I want you there_ because he is a hopeless mess when it comes to his best friend Erik—his Commander, now, he reminds himself—and isn’t even afraid to admit it anymore; at least to himself.

Erik himself has been a War-Prince for a few months now— _War-Prince Erik Lehnsherr_ rolls right off the tongue, Charles thinks, and Erik wears his rank comfortably and confidently.  Erik’s been stationed on the Oh-Bee Magnesium ever since being promoted, but true to his word two years ago, as soon as Charles graduated from the Academy Erik put in a request for filling a ship Commander position, and selected Charles as his preferred Deputy.

Both had been approved, naturally, because Erik is still determinedly nothing if not competent and HQ had probably been falling over itself in its haste to send out one of its best War-Princes into space, and Charles has already seen the specs for the ship they’re being commissioned and Jesus, all their plans are really falling into place.

“ _They_ won’t mind if I’m with you, will they?” Charles asks tentatively after a few minutes of silence, mostly because he’s still a little nervous about this.  Everyone knows how picky the Keflars are.

Erik glances over at him, but instead of dismissive his gaze is thoughtful.  Charles really hopes that he hasn’t flushed again, because it sort of feels like Erik is looking at him with laser vision or something equally ridiculous (but probably true, who really knows).

“No,” Erik says after a few long moments of silence during which Charles is acutely aware that they are, for lack of a better term, staring at each other, “Edgar’s going to love you.” 

He sounds resigned, almost, so Charles hides a grin by turning back to his control panel, tapping the screen once.  “We’re at your coordinates,” he reports, “right on schedule.”

“Astounding.” Erik says dryly, and Charles is a little inclined to agree with him because this cramped Electron shuttle they’ve borrowed from the Oh-Bee is several years outdated and leaves much to be desired.  “Switch the controls over to me, I’ll take it from here.”

“Yes sir,” Charles says automatically, and then ducks his head when Erik shoots him a Look.  “Er, sorry.  It’s a habit.”  He taps out one final command and then slides his hand across the screen, pushing the controls over to Erik.

“Maybe necessary once we have our full crew,” the War-Prince relents as the controls glide onto his own screen, “but not even protocol demands it all the time.”

Charles allows himself a small smile.  “Right, Erik.”

Erik turns out to be right, of course—the jolly Keflar chieftain takes an immediate liking to Charles almost as soon as they finally make contact with the Hejmo, and once they dock at the gargantuan ship-planet Charles is torn between amusement and embarrassment at Erik’s own mix of exasperation and grudging fondness as Edgar teases them both, warm and welcoming.

Then Edgar gives Erik Raven—her name is a joke, he says laughingly, and mentions something about a poem by Poe—and Erik doesn’t want to accept Edgar’s gift, at first, but the Keflar insists and finally Erik folds, albeit gracefully.

And then Edgar explains what Raven does.

“Why are you giving this to me?” Erik asks in the complete silence that follows.

“There is nowhere else I would prefer this technology to be,” Edgar says simply, “the Hejmo’s master program has only been copied once.  The copy is yours.  I trust no one else.”

“Why did you copy it if you didn’t want anyone to have it?” Erik asks through gritted teeth.

Edgar smiles, his golden eyes warm.  “We copied it just to see if we could, Erik.  Often times simple joys can be found in proving oneself right rather than wrong.”

Just to see if they could.  That right there is the entirety of the Keflar philosophy of life and work, in one short, six-word sentence.  How simple.  How true.

“I don’t understand you.” Erik sighs, but Charles gets the feeling that it is more for the sake of being petulant than anything else.

Edgar must know too because he laughs.  “Come now.  You’ll name your ship Heartsteel,” he says, and it is not a suggestion, “and let me tell you why.”

 

X

 

“So,” Scott says, breaking the silence, “who the fuck is Victor.”

He sounds angry.  Normally Logan wouldn’t bat an eye because Scott Summers is always angry.  He’s been angry since the day they met and decided that they’d work out all their aggression towards each other by fucking.  Scott was born angry, Logan thinks.  He’s just an angry sort of man.  The Universe wouldn’t be the same if the fucker was happy.  It might even implode or something.

Except this time beneath the anger there is accusation, and Logan doesn’t know what’s worse at this point—the fact that there _is_ accusation, or the fact that it’s probably goddamn right for it to be there.

Since when does he give a shit about anything—or _anyone_ —else other than where the fuck he’s going to get his next box of cigars?

“Is Erik out?” Logan asks flatly instead.

Scott looks ready to spit laser beams or something else goddamn dramatic, but he nods tersely.  “McCoy pumped him full of meds.  He’s going to be down for awhile this time.”

“Good.” Logan says.  Erik needs the rest while he can still get it, even though that time has technically already run out.

Scott narrows his eyes.  “Who the _fuck_ is Victor, Logan?”

Logan wants to punch something until his knuckles bleed, and Scott is looking more and more like the best target.  “It doesn’t matter,” he snaps, “can you just fucking drop something for once in your goddamn life?”

He only realizes that he’s practically shouting by the end, his voice echoing through the empty deck.  They’re outside the medical bay still, so McCoy’s probably going to stick his head out into the hall any minute now to tell him to shut the hell up.

Logan doesn’t want to shut the hell up, though, he wants to scream obscenities until his voice gives out.  Fucking _Victor_ , of all the goddamn people in the Universe, has Charles.  _Charles_.  And meanwhile Erik is already losing his shit and he’s not even fully lucid enough to really think of the full ramifications of this _shitstorm_ that they’re in the middle of.

Erik would be dead if it weren’t for how competent McCoy is.  Plain and simple.

Charles _will_ be dead if they leave him in Victor’s bloody hands.  Plain and simple.  The only reason Charles isn’t _already_ dead is because whoever is holding the end of Victor’s leash this time must be paying out the nose for him to bring Charles in alive.

Three fucking guesses who that is.  God _damn_ it, they should have seen this coming.

Charles got lucky the last time he had a brush with the Nyrulians, but Logan figures that this time the Prince’s luck has just about run out.

“Logan.” Scott’s right in front of him now, and he still looks angry but he’s also determined, and Jesus Christ, when Scott gets determined there’s not much that can stop him.  “Of course it fucking matters.  You start thinking like that, then what the _fuck_ are we even doing here?”

Logan looks at him; really takes him in, because this might be one of the last times he ever gets to.  They’re on the brink of war, and it’s going to be long and bloody and Logan’s not sure who’s going to come out on top this time—because last time there wasn’t a winner, and he doesn’t think that it’ll end in a draw again.  The Nyrulians have already decimated an entire race.

Their game is annihilation, and they’re playing to win.

But _fuck ’em_ if they think they can put a hole in his Commander and make off with his Deputy again.  That shit ain’t gonna _fly_.  Logan knows that they can’t expect any help from the Fleet, but fuck them too.  If the Fleet thinks that Charles Xavier is a criminal, then Logan’s not sure he wants to wear their insignia anymore.

Scott grins, all teeth, because he can see everything in Logan’s eyes.  The fucker is annoying how much he knows, but then again it saves Logan from having to trouble with things like words.  “See?  It fucking matters.  So just tell me, douchebag.”

Logan snorts.  They have a lot of work to do before Erik is functioning again, but they can do it.  For Charles’ sake, they can get their goddamn shit together and do it.  “Victor Creed is my brother,” he says, and this time he means it, “and I’m going to kill him.”

 

X

 

Paladin to the First Degree Steven Grant Rogers, Commander of the Star Base Americium, Graduate with the Highest Honors of the Imperial Academy, genius tactician and strategist, solar-system-champion of the Intergalactic Olympics in speed running and hammer throwing, is lowering himself slowly down into the chair at the head of the conference table.

It feels wrong.  Lehnsherr ought to be occupying this seat.  If not him, then Charles.  If not Charles, anyone else, goddamn it, not Steve.  The Heartsteel isn’t his ship, this isn’t his table, this is not his territory.  He’s invading, crossing lines, stepping into places he has no business stepping.

The problem is he’s the only one who can.

“Tell me everything.”

“Starting where?” Logan snarls, pacing like a caged animal along the length of the wall lined with floor-to-ceiling windows.

“From wherever you need to,” Steve answers, and keeps calm.  He knows how Logan’s mind works; he knows how everyone’s minds works, that’s just how Steve is.  He understands what makes people tick.

Scott is sitting as far away from Steve as he can, on the other end of the table without sitting at the other exactly across him, but to his left.  Steve can deal with angry friends, especially when it’s not even a priority, so he ignores the hostility for now.  So long as it doesn’t interfere with what they need or have to do, it can lay spread open and bare between them.

“He’s my half-brother,” Logan mutters, grinding his teeth so hard he might just crack them.  “Younger than me by four years.  My mother cheated on my dad or something, I don’t even know the full story, but he used to live close to our house and we had the same father.  When I decided to run away from home he tagged along.  We got,” he makes a vague gesture with his hand, brusque and violent, “into bad company.  It got fucked up.  I didn’t like it, so I left, tried to get my life in line or whatever.  My rap sheet was about five fucking light-years long, so I don’t know how the fuck I even got into the Academy in the first place, but they let me, and I stayed.”

Steve sits back in the chair, mind racing.  Puzzle pieces slotting together in his mind, as Logan speaks. Well, that makes sense.   _Damn it_.

“Victor figured out I was doing fine with my life and he tried to join.  They didn’t let him.  Failed the psychological fucking tests or something.”

“And _you_ passed them?” Scott says, incredulous.

“Obviously, shithead, and you passed them too, so don’t fucking come be surprised at my face, you—”

“Alright,” Steve speaks up, arching his brows.  “What happened then?”

“He got into nastier and nastier shit,” Logan huffs.  “Turned into a mercenary.  He’s a fucking psychopath.  He kills because it’s fun.  He likes destroying shit.  Half the time he does whatever the fuck he wants.  You hire him to kidnap someone and he kills them.”

The bit about how he’s the one who’s just kidnapped Charles goes unsaid.

Scott spreads his hands.  “How’s the Intergalactic Police not on his tail like salt on chips?”

“They can’t actually prove shit,” Logan snarls.  “He’s smart.  He doesn’t leave trails.  Only reason we even know it’s him now is the video and he only allowed that to transmit to take a jab at _me_.  He _hates_ me.”

“This somehow doesn’t fucking surprise me!”

Steve tunes them out and focuses inward on the problem at hand.  He aligns the variables to analyze separately.

The Nyrulians hired Victor Creed to kidnap Tony Stark.  The Nyrulians want Keflar technology that as of now is an ever rarer commodity than before, and the only one that can give it to them is Tony Stark.  Victor successfully acquired Tony, but then went on to kidnap Charles—presumably fortuitously as he could not have expected Charles to show up in the JARVIS asteroid.  Unless—unless he had seen Tony’s transmission, somehow decoded it, known Steve would go to Charles.  That however implies Creed has in-depth knowledge of the thought-processes involved by all parties: Tony, Steve, Erik Lehnsherr, Charles.  Logan obviously.

No.  Too far-fetched.

An alternative point of view is this really was a stroke of luck to him.  Precipitated by Steve, which is like a spear to the gut, but he puts the guilt aside for now.  Creed took over the opportunity to snatch Charles and shoot Lehnsherr down.  Why?  He needs Charles alive but Lehnsherr dead.  What is the difference in knowledge and abilities, then, between Charles and Lehnsherr?  Steve doesn’t know the War-Prince well enough to figure this one out on his own.  He needs more information.

He lifts his head, and only then becomes aware of Logan and Scott, silently staring at him.

Of course.  Even Logan and Scott know to let him figure out tactical equations in peace, when he sets his mind to it.

“We need more time,” he says.  “I need more time to figure this out.  There are too many unknown variables.”

“How do we _get_ you more time?” Logan throws up his hands.  “Fury’s going to be on our fucking _throats_ in fifteen hours.”

Steve turns this around in his mind.

“We’ll take a risk.  If what Fury wants is a guilty party for trial, I’ll give him one.  I’ll surrender myself.  That should clear you all of suspicion of endorsement long enough to figure out the Nyrulian’s play and act accordingly.”

Scott’s mouth clicks shut.

Logan lets his shoulders slump.  “That’s the end of your career, Steve.”

“It won’t matter if we don’t get this done,” Steve replies, spreading his right hand palm down on the table and pressing down so his fingertips and knuckles turn white.  “If we don’t stop whatever is unfolding here, we’re at war.  This ship is the only one that _knows_.  You have to figure this out.”

“What, _without_ you?”

 “Lehnsherr is a master-class strategist.  You don’t need me.”

“This all assuming Fury wants a guilty party for trial,” Scott says slowly.  “What if that’s not what he wants.”

Steve shakes his head minutely.  “Fury marches to his own drum.  He always has.  Half the time not even the Fleet knows what he’s after.  I can’t predict exactly what his angle is, but I can arm myself enough to field whatever balls he throws at me in ways you guys can’t.  I’m better prepared.”

Logan leans his hands against the table, tense like a lion about to pounce.  “That’s a band-aid for a gut wound, Steve.”

“It’ll do for a while,” Steve insists.  “Just don’t go stopping for take-out food at some distant star or something.  Get this done.  Preferably before I get a life-sentence for aiding-and-abetting.”

Logan snorts.  “Who would even think you’re with Creed, I mean—”

“Not Creed,” Steve interrupts.  “Charles.  Starfleet-wanted criminal Charles Xavier, stripped of rank for suspicion of treason and aiding in the escape of war criminal and traitor Cain Marko, who was placed in my personal custody, and is now gone without a trace.  While we sit in a far-off uninhabited quadrant I had no business allowing you to travel for, and even went as far as traveling _with_ you, with no orders or permission, abandoning my post for no logically explainable reason.”

There is a moment of speechless horror shared between Logan and Scott.

“This is the end of my career anyway,” Steve continues, calm as the oceans on far-away moons.  “I’ve pushed one line too many.  We made a gamble coming here and it turned out wrong.  It happens.  Not even I can predict unforeseen factors.  But don’t make the mistake of thinking I didn’t figure out all the consequences if this went wrong.”

Logan swallows.  “You did it anyway, though.”

Steve inhales, hold the air, and exhales slowly.  “For Tony.”

Scott drags both his hands up and down his face, growling helplessly.

“Fuck. _Fuck_!” Abruptly, he slams both his fists against the table, making it vibrate.  “So you go to jail.  How the fuck does that help us?”

“I take the fall, you guys are fee to run around.  You’ll have to go off the grid, fall off the map.  Find Creed, find Charles and Tony, figure this out.  Put an end to it.”

“The moment we go AWOL, you’re fucked.”

Steve shakes his head.  “I’m fucked either way.  Forget about that.  Focus on what you can _do_.  Charles, Tony, the Nyrulians.”

Logan pushes off the table, restless with anger.  “Fury’s going to figure it out.  He’s like an omniscient Cyclops of doom or something.”

“Fury takes chances,” Steve says.  “That’s what he does.  He watches the variables and tries to figure out the plays, and then he acts.  He’s going to be so busy trying to figure out why the hell I just basically admitted to treason, when he knows I’m not a traitor, that he’s not going to have any attention to spare for you.”

“What if he _doesn’t_ take the chance?”

“He will,” Steve says immediately.  “He does all the time.  You said before you don’t know how you got into the Academy.  That’s Fury.  He throws blanket support over talented people with rap sheets or undesirable characteristics and he makes sure they are allowed into the Academy.  That’s his play.  He brings into Starfleet the key attitudes and talents he knows Starfleet needs but wouldn’t otherwise embrace.  He plays the long game; he _always_ plays the long game.”

“So, what, you’re saying I owe my commission to fucking _Nick Fury?_ ” Logan spits, fuming.

“No!” Steve throws up his hands.  “Aren’t you listening?  You owe your commission to yourself.  All Fury did was give you a _chance_.  Whatever happened after you got in?  All you.  He just opened the door for you.”

“I still—owe him shit—”

“Whatever!” Scott slaps the table loudly.  “We’ve got bigger shit to deal with than your fucking existential crisis!” He turns back to Steve, eyes narrowed.  “So why the hell is Fury going to buy you giving yourself up on a platter?”

“Because I play the long game too.  I’ve got skills he wants and I haven’t given them to him.  Getting me in a tight spot means he can do whatever the hell he wants with me, which suits him just fine.  It’ll distract him enough for you to fall off the face of the galaxy.”

A long moment of silence.

“It’s not,” Logan starts, and swallows.  “I mean.  I was angry.  But this isn’t really…”

“My fault?” Steve tilts his head.  “A large part of it is.  I might as well take the fall for it.  I wasn’t going anywhere on the Americium in any case.”

He shakes his head slowly.

“What you need to focus on right _now_ is this.  What do the Nyrulians want with Tony and Charles?  Don’t say revenge,” he says quickly when Scott opens his mouth, “the Nyrulians aren’t imbeciles.  That’s a short term satisfaction, not a tactic move for a long-term goal.  This is the second time they targeted Charles.  Think about it.”

Logan and Scott share a look.  “We need Erik.”

“Then get Erik,” Steve says, standing up.  “We’re done here anyway.  I’m leaving.  We still have fifteen hours of time before they expect me and Charles, but if I just stay here all that time doing nothing it’ll look bad for you.  Put my departure in the log.  Say it was unannounced and unauthorized.  I’m good enough a hacker to open a hangar door; that should be believable.”

Scott glances to the ceiling and opens his mouth.  Logan’s hand flies out to grip his wrist, stopping him, but Steve’s keen eyes catch the motion.

He smiles slightly.

“Raven,” he says clearly.

“Paladin Rogers.”

“Delete all records and footage of the conversation held in this room by me and the Legionnaires Howlett and Summers.”

A slight pause.

“Yes, sir,” the AI says, and if she seems somewhat quiet, subdued, it’s no wonder.  Logan and Scott were betting on keeping that footage to save Steve later on.  They’re sure Steve has a _reason_ to delete it and send himself to the guillotine without any chances to stop the process, but it still hurts.

“Steve—”

“Logan,” the Paladin interrupts, smiling softly, “just don’t.”

 

X

 

“Don’t do that,” Tony says, sounding only vaguely worried, “it kind of freaks me out.”

“Sorry.”  Charles stops laughing, mostly because he’s not sure he even has the strength to continue in the first place.  “It’s just.”

He stops there.  There are a lot of things he could tack on to that sentence, but that’s just the thing, isn’t it—Tony already knows.  They’re both going to die.  Life is suddenly looking very black and white right now.

But, Charles thinks with a vicious sort of pleasure that probably should surprise him, the Nyrulians _got it all wrong_.

It’s easy to know for sure, because Tony’s got it wrong too, Charles can tell.  Edgar really _was_ a genius—the simplicity of it all.  It’s as if they’ve played a grand cosmic joke on everyone, except only Charles, now, is the only one still around to appreciate it.

He’ll just have to wait to see their faces.

He hears a small hiss.  “Ah, that’s better,” Tony says casually as he brings his hands back in front of himself, massaging his wrists, “and Creed really should know better than to use computerized shackles on a hacker for Christ’s sake.  Just took me awhile because the angle was awkward for my fingers.”

“Be a darling, would you?” Charles mumbles absently, leaning forward.

“My pleasure.”  Tony reaches over and punches in a long code on Charles’ shackles, and then they fall open with a soft hiss of air.

Charles straightens again slowly, working his shoulders carefully as he too brings his arms back in front of himself, feeling instant relief from the lack of strain.  “Ta.”

“Listen, I thought about this when you were still out.”  Tony levels him with a serious look.  “I’m not going to cooperate, and neither are you.  So what’s the point in waiting around for them to kill us?”

“You want to escape.” Charles says.

“Or die trying,” Tony says with a shrug, “because who’s to say that Creed won’t just kill us in the process.  But I think we have a good chance of making it to an E-pod.  Creed hasn’t been down here once to check on us, so I think he’s counting on us being fairly incapacitated.”

Charles notices, for the first time, the rather large stain of blood across Tony’s chest.  “Even if we do make it, we’re not going to get very far.”

“It’ll still piss them off,” Tony says with an easy grin, full of false bravado that’s really unnecessary because Charles knows that Tony is just as terrified as he is, but Tony will be Tony and Tony always keeps up appearances.  “And,” he adds, growing more somber, “it’ll stall them just that much longer from whatever it is they’re gearing up to do.”

Charles doesn’t say anything.

“Anything’s better than just sitting here,” Tony says, softer, “and nothing’s better than at least giving them one last big _fuck you_.”

Charles already has his last big _fuck you_ to the Nyrulians lined up, but he doesn’t say anything.  Not yet.  “Alright.”

“Excellent,” Tony says, business-like, and rolls up to his feet in one fluid motion, only slightly shaky, before turning and offering a hand to Charles.  “Ready, partner?”

Charles reaches up to grab Tony’s hand, and then grits his teeth and braces himself when the engineer pulls him up.

“Still with me?” Tony asks a few moments later, when Charles’ vision is mostly back to normal, the sudden whiteness fading.

“ _Fuck_.” Charles grits out, all of his weight on his good leg as he balances.  Terribly slowly, he leans more onto his other leg.  “I’m afraid we won’t be getting very far at all, at this rate.”

“Minor inconveniences are still annoying.” Tony says airily, heading off towards the far wall of the storage room, and Charles is grateful for the fact that he doesn’t offer to carry him.  “Also, you should curse more often.  It sounds so dainty in your—shit!”

Tony nearly jumps three feet into the air when the container beside him rattles wildly for a moment, swaying where it stands.  Both of them freeze, and then Charles can hear it—a low growl threatening to build into a snarl from within the depths of the large, steel box.

“Wonder what the hell else he’s smuggling,” Tony says in an obvious attempt to not appear as shaken as he looks, “sounds rather dicey.”  He keeps going, reaching the control panel near the door of the room.  “Keep up, slow poke, we don’t have all day.”

Charles squares his shoulders and then carefully limps after him, giving the growling container a wide berth.  His bad leg can take only the barest minimum of his weight and he is laughably unsteady, but he catches up to Tony just as the engineer finishes fiddling with the control panel, making the door slide open.

Tony sticks his head out into the hallway.  “All’s clear on the western front,” he reports in a stage whisper, “now let’s go before Creed decides to actually look at a camera.”

“Do you know where we’re going?” Charles asks as they creep along the very narrow hallway.  The ship they’re in appears ratty and run-down, as if the owner hasn’t done much upkeep.  Several vent shafts are visible on the ceiling, ugly pipes that twist and turn around each other—a far cry from a Starfleet ship, which are always—

No.  He’s not thinking about this.

“I pulled up a map of the ship while you were hobbling over,” Tony answers absently, “so of course I do.”

“Of course.” Charles echoes, managing to sound somewhat dry.

“We’re not that far,” Tony continues, edging quickly past another doorway, “stupid move on his part, really, to put us down in the cargo hold.  I mean if he’s a bounty hunter shouldn’t he have better places to put his victims?  I know _I’d_ design something that would—”

He rounds a corner and walks smack into Victor Creed.

 

X

 

Erik wakes up.

The first thing he sees is Logan, sitting next to his bed and puffing away on a lit cigar.  He’s got his legs crossed and he’s idly reading a comm pad but he glances up almost as soon as Erik opens his eyes.

The second thing he sees is Scott, glaring.

“Shut the fuck up,” Scott says, even though Erik hasn’t said a word, but that’s probably beside the point.

Logan rolls his eyes and puts his comm pad down.  “There are some things you should know,” he says conversationally, “so you’d better fucking pay attention.”

“And then you’re going to tell us the goddamn truth,” Scott adds matter-of-factly, “about Raven.”

 

X

 

“Well,” Creed says, “somehow I ain’t surprised, Stark.”

“And here I was hoping it’d be a party,” Tony says with a wide grin even as he takes a couple steps back, “well shit, better luck next time—”

“But Xavier, sweetheart,” Creed interrupts, looking past Tony at Charles, “I’m crushed.  I thought I made it clear that you were to behave.”

Charles stands stock-still, prey caught in the gaze of a predator, but then he draws in a steady breath.  There’s no reason to be afraid.  Not anymore.  Not when the outcome will always be the same.  “I don’t take orders from scum,” he says evenly, “I thought I made _that_ clear.”

“So kitty does have claws,” Creed says softly, mouth curling upwards in a slow, deadly grin, “I like it.  It’s fun when they think they’re tough.  Makes the sound of their screams that much…sweeter.”

“Ah,” Charles says, meeting his gaze unblinkingly, “but you won’t be alive to hear them, now will you?”

Silence.

“You know,” Creed says eventually, once he’s let the silence linger for a beat too long, “I really do hate it when people _imply_ things that just aren’t true.  Really skeeves me off, dollface.”

“Pity,” Charles says impassively, “that you can’t see the truth even when it’s right in front of you.”

Creed takes a step towards him, moving to shove past Tony, and that’s when Tony grabs the phaser at the bounty hunter’s belt and shoots it at the ceiling.

The blast hits one of the vent pipes and blows it open—a foggy, yellow gas starts to flood into the hallway with a loud hiss, and Charles immediately sucks in a breath of clean air before throwing up an arm to cover his mouth and nose, surging forward while Creed is still grappling with Tony over the phaser.

Charles nearly stumbles over and lands on top of them when his leg gives a sharp, jarring pang, but he turns the stumble into a kick aimed for Creed’s head, feeling no small satisfaction when he feels it land, Creed’s head snapping back.  His momentum _does_ make him fall, but Tony has slipped free from Creed’s grasp and grabs Charles by the arm, yanking him down the hall—

Charles is torn out of Tony’s grip by a hand that grabs his ankle, and he falls down to the deck with a thud.  He can’t help the automatic sharp intake of breath in pain, and immediately starts coughing when he inhales some of the yellow gas but rolls onto his side, kicking out viciously again, trying to dislodge Creed’s meaty fingers—

Creed drags himself up to his knees, looming over Charles for a brief moment in time where everything seems to fall still for a split second, even though gas is still hissing into the hallway and Tony is still somewhere behind them.  Their eyes lock, and Charles can see the churning madness in the bounty hunter’s eyes, the lack of all reason or rational thought as bloodlust takes over, and then the moment is broken when Charles’ fingers find the phaser on the deck.

Without thinking he grabs it, lifts it, and fires.

The blast narrowly misses Creed as the bounty hunter throws himself out of the way at the last second.  The remaining pipes in the ceiling burst in an explosion that makes the whole hallway seem to shake, and Charles only narrowly avoids being crushed when Tony pulls him across the floor out of the way.

For a few moments everything is wild confusion because there is gas everywhere and he’s lost track of where Creed is and Tony is still dragging him and he can’t stop coughing, his lungs are _burning_ —

Something plastic is shoved into his mouth, and Tony is ordering, “Breathe.  Now.”

Charles inhales, and nearly chokes when fresh air invades his lungs, rolling over onto his side and yanking the tube out of his mouth to hack, drawing in ragged, gasping breaths.  His ears are ringing but he’s abruptly aware of how quiet it is now, aside from his own noise.

“Puke if you have to,” Tony suggests, and Charles looks up blearily.  The engineer is on his feet, tapping at another small control panel on the wall.  Wherever they are, it’s very small.  “Don’t try to hold it in; you need to get that shit out of your system.”

Charles doesn’t answer at first, content with merely breathing, getting his heart rate back in control.  He realizes that they’re in an E-pod when he catches sight of the small porthole that serves as a window—Tony must have gotten them both into one during all the confusion.  There’s a small medical kit spread out across the floor; Tony must have dumped it to get to the oxygen tube.

Well.  Doesn’t _this_ bring back memories.

“You’re scary when you go all cold like that,” Tony remarks, turning around, “didn’t think you had that in you, if I’m honest.  But it was good.”

Charles clears his throat.  “He’s a fool if he thinks the Nyrulians aren’t going to just kill him too.”

Tony rolls his eyes with a snort.  “Yeah.  He’s a _real_ brainiac, that one.  Almost felt threatened for a moment.”

“You’ll always be the smartest one in the room, Tony.” Charles says.  He means to sound fond, but it mostly comes out sounding weary.

Tony studies him with his dark eyes for a moment, oddly solemn.  “I wouldn’t bet on it,” he says finally, and Charles actually blinks because Tony Stark does not admit his shortcomings, or at least never used to.

“It’s good to see you.” Charles says belatedly.  Their scrap with Creed has woken him up in a way, leaving him feeling less numb at the very least.

Tony grins, amused but understanding.  “It’s good to see you too.”  He pulls Charles up off the floor carefully, and helps him sink down onto the bench against the wall.  Then he laughs.  “I can’t believe that actually worked.”

“My luck is appalling,” Charles assures him, because he’s actually not even fazed, at this point, “both good and bad.”

“Oh, good,” Tony answers cheerfully, “then you won’t panic, then, if I tell you that the hull of this thing is about three minutes away from cracking.”

“Not really,” Charles answers, “though I won’t lie and say this won’t be a painful way to die.”

“Jesus, you really _are_ calm.” Tony says with small wonder.  “Well, in any case, I am serious about the hull.  We sort of jetted out of the ship at a _really_ unsafe speed, but it’s not like we didn’t know what we were signed up for.  The good news is that we’re pretty close to this unnamed moon, and we should be able to crash-land if the hull doesn’t crack now or during our entrance to the atmosphere.”

“Freezing or burning,” Charles acknowledges, “splendid.”

Tony laughs.  “Your morbid side is showing.”

“I am tired,” Charles tells him, because what does he have to lose for being honest at this point, “of being afraid.”

“Well,” Tony says, looking away, “we don’t have to worry about that for much longer.”

They’re silent for a few moments, and the E-pod starts to shake as they enter the atmosphere of the moon, the window glowing with heat as they hurtle down towards the surface.  A computerized voice announces several warnings and Tony hops up to toy with the control panel, but Charles merely closes his eyes, leaning back against the wall.  His leg is throbbing painfully but he doesn’t want to think about that—he’d much rather think about Erik.  Erik’s touch.  Erik’s smile.  Erik’s voice.

Erik’s laugh.

“Hold on!” Tony shouts, throwing himself back down onto the bench beside Charles and fumbling with the straps.  “Here, take yours, I think we might—”

The E-pod shudders violently, and it’s more of a reactionary instinct than anything else that has Charles scrambling to strap himself down, and not a moment too soon as the E-pod makes its landing.

Charles is fairly certain that he blacks out for a few moments, because the next thing he’s aware of is Tony standing over him undoing his straps for him and saying, “Well your appalling luck still seems to be holding, we’ve hit a lake.  Up for a swim?”

“Not really,” Charles says faintly, but allows Tony to pull him up— _again_ , at this rate he’s going to get vertigo—and walk them both over to the E-pod’s hatch, Charles’ arm slung around his shoulders.

“Computer says the air is breathable,” Tony says, “so here we go.  Computer.  Open the hatch.”

The hatch slides open, and while the air is indeed breathable, Charles almost can’t breathe for a moment or two on the account of how thick and heavy the moisture in it is.

It takes him a few moments to work out where they are.  The lake Tony said that they landed in actually turns out to be a swamp, complete with tall, reedy grass and enough strange animal noises to make a symphony.  A few yards away, drier land rises out of the water, but it still looks rather damp and muddy from Charles’ viewpoint, thick with scraggly-looking trees that are heavy with some kind of moss.  On top of the humidity it’s also hot, and Charles is already sweating in his torn and shredded uniform.

“I doubt Creed is dead,” Tony says beside him, “and he’ll be down here after us as soon as he fixes his ship up.  We might as well make it difficult for him to find us.”

Charles tears his eyes away from the scenery to look back at his companion, and they share a grim look.  They survived their escape, so all they’re doing now is stalling the inevitable.

“One big fuck you, yes?” Charles says, somehow forming his lips into a small smile.

Tony grins.  “That’s right.”

The fastest way out of the pod ends up being just to jump, so they take the plunge together.  The water is nearly as hot as the air temperature, offering no cooling relief, and Charles has to kick with only one leg awkwardly, but they make it to the shore, clambering up onto the bank.  Charles counts six species of insects he’s fairly certain have never been documented before all in the span of two minutes, heavily reminded of his Xenobiology classes, but even his love for science and discovery seems to be on mute, because all he does is blink and move on, scrambling up after Tony.

Now that he’s wet, Charles gets the feeling that he isn’t ever going to dry—his clothes already feel like they’ll forever be damp now in this humidity and for a moment he’s annoyed and then he almost laughs at himself because really, what does he care?  He is stranded on an unnamed moon, who knows where in the galaxy, being pursued by a bounty hunter who probably wants to tear him to pieces at this point, and Erik is probably dead, yet here Charles is worried about being wet.

“Let’s just follow this incline for now,” Tony says, unknowingly or not providing an ample distraction before Charles can look too closely at his previous thoughts and do something like break down.

Charles’ progress is much slower than Tony’s as they make their way up the small hill, slogging through the trees, and Charles is starting to come to the grim conclusion that he’s fairly certain his leg is never going to heal properly at this rate—but what is he thinking, at this rate, it doesn’t really matter.

Charles decides to stop thinking.

Tony waits for him at the top, and Charles gives him a nod of thanks before gratefully taking a moment to rest, catching his breath.  Even the sky overhead is overcast, only adding to the overall mugginess of the swamp and really, this terrain could not be any more miserable if it tried.  At least they haven’t encountered anything with teeth yet.

Small mercies.

“Given normal circumstances, I imagine you’d be having a field day,” Tony says idly, looking around, “I’ve said it a million times but you’re wasted as an officer; you should’ve been scientist.  I mean really.  Look at this plant.  It’s enormous.  This is an outrageous plant.”

Charles follows his gaze.  There is a rather large, bulbous plant sitting a few yards away that looks more like a giant vase than plant.  It’s sitting on a bed of its own vines, and Charles guesses that it’s taller than both of them put together, so Tony is right—it _is_ pretty outrageous.  But even the sight of an outrageous plant does nothing to spark his usually boundless curiosity, which Charles thinks really says something about his state of mind at the moment.

“I liked being a Prince,” he says instead, “I enjoy science just as much as you do, but as a Prince I was able to work with people.”

“Eh, people.” Tony answers, only slightly teasing, and it makes Charles give a faint smile as he remembers their old debates from their Academy days.

It feels like it’s been centuries since then.

Charles does sincerely mean he liked being a Prince, though.  Working in the lab has always been a source of fascination—he likes knowledge, after all—but he’s really a people-person at heart.  And of course, with Erik as his War-Prince, it used to seem like nothing could possibly ever go wrong.

How very _wrong_ he had been.

“Did that just move?” Tony wonders suddenly, and Charles distinctly thinks _oh no._

Then he feels something wrap around the ankle of his good leg, and very suddenly he is upside-down.

“Charles!” Tony shouts, eyes wide, and he lunges up in an attempt to grab at him, but Charles is already being lifted out of reach, dangling in midair.

 _I should be used to this_ , Charles thinks wearily.  Because of _course_ the outrageous plant they just so happen to be standing next to is more sentient than an average plant, and of _course_ it’s carnivorous.  Why _wouldn’t_ it be?

The plant has one thick vine wrapped around his leg, and at least it’s being gentler than a certain monster with tentacles that immediately comes to mind.  Charles watches with a detached sort of fascination as the plant lifts him up high, and then begins to unfurl its bulb, opening a sort of wide, gaping mouth.

At least, Charles reasons, there aren’t any teeth.

Tony is still shouting his name, and Charles should probably tell him something like how it’s fine, it doesn’t matter, the Nyrulians were going to kill me anyway, remember, but by the time he comes to a decision the vine lets him drop, and he plunges down into the plant’s open mouth.

He’s not quite sure what to expect upon being swallowed by a plant, so it’s a little surprising when he lands in something that’s gooey and sticky as well as oddly warm, sinking down into it with a loud squelch.  There’s a few seconds of light for him to gather that he’s basically floating in the plant’s stomach acid, and then the bulb is closing up again, leaving him in darkness and trapping him inside.

Charles can dimly hear Tony shouting his name outside, but he just closes his eyes and floats.  It’s getting hot inside the plant now, enough as to where he’s getting drowsy, and actually it’d probably be better if he just fell asleep and quietly drowned before this stomach acid starts to burn, because it’s already making his skin tingle as it slowly starts to digest him.

His eyes shoot open again when something grabs his arm.

It’s still pitch black and he can’t see a thing, but it stands to reason that instead of dying nice and quietly as plant food, he’s instead going to be mauled by whatever it was that the plant ate recently enough that’s still alive.  What was he thinking?

And then a light clicks on and Charles is blinded for a moment, and even then when his eyes adjust he’s not quite sure he believes what exactly he’s seeing.

“Dude,” Wade Wilson says with one of his huge grins that is roughly the size of Jupiter, “it’s _so_ good to see you, bro.”


	9. You both made your choices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI GUYS. We've missed you!
> 
> WARNINGS for not-so-great mindsets, and Wade Wilson.

Erik stares at them for a couple of moments.

He knows three things.

One.  Charles is gone.

Two.  Charles is _gone_.

Three.  Scott and Logan are the biggest dickbags in the entire Universe.

They’re also the only two people he’s got left that he can fully trust, and if that doesn’t say something’s fucked up about his people relations then he’s not sure what it means but as it stands, they are literally his only two friends and that has to count for something.

And hm, there’s something off about the numbering on all that but whatever.

“Raven,” he says, his voice coming out in a croak.

“Sir.”  The AI materializes immediately on the other side of the bed, arms folded neatly behind her back.

“Last files opened by Legionnaires Summers and Howlett,” Erik says, without looking away from either of them.  Scott narrows his eyes but Logan only looks grim, the cigar in his mouth nearly burnt all the way through.

“Legionnaires Summers and Howlett attempted to access HF33427 approximately one hundred and thirty-six minutes ago, sir.”  Raven’s voice has grown quiet.  She doesn’t list any other files.

She doesn’t need to.

“And how,” Erik says, his voice growing hard, because that file is labeled HF—Hidden File—for a _reason_ , “did they manage to stumble upon that?”

Both Logan and Scott are looking at him defiantly now but neither of them says anything, waiting for Raven’s response.

“Directive Zero,” Raven begins into the silence, her voice suddenly flat and computerized, containing none of her usual inflection.

“No.” Erik interrupts her.

“Overrides Directives One and Three,” Raven continues as if he hasn’t said a word, “given the current—”

“Raven—”

“—situational statistics and outcome probabilities, main Directives One and Three are no longer applicable to this ship or her bridge crew possessing over Level 9 clearance, therefore—”

“ _No_ —”

“—Directive Zero has been initialized.” Raven finishes serenely, possessing only the unmovable calm that an AI can replicate.  “Awaiting your orders, sir.”

In the ringing silence that follows, Logan says heavily, as if he already suspects the answer, “Sir.  What is Directive Zero.”

“Directive Zero,” Erik says, dragging a hand down his face, because of course Raven is right, several things have just lined up in his head and everything suddenly makes _sense_ now, “the End Game Directive.”

 

X

 

“Oh,” Charles says, “it’s you.”  Because of course it is.

Why _wouldn’t_ Wade Wilson be in the same outrageous plant that has just swallowed him whole?

Really.

“I am _so_ glad to see you, bro,” Wade says, still wearing his slightly-goofy-yet-also-vaguely-terrifying grin as he pulls Charles through the thick goo and—oh, that’s alarming—crushes him in a hug, “because man, it’s been _ages_.”

“Actually,” Charles says, his voice a little strained because Wade is pretty strong and may or may not be crushing every last cubic inch of air out of his lungs, “it’s only been a few days, Wade.”

Wade laughs.  “Dude, did you know that you’re in a plant?”

“The thought’s occurred to me, yes,” Charles admits.

“Man, you are _crazy_.” Wade says fondly and shakes his head, like he can’t believe it.

A small pause.

“Wade,” Charles says carefully, because Jesus Christ, “you are also in the same plant.”

“Isn’t it great?” Wade replies cheerfully.  “Of all the plants in the entire galaxy, we end up in the same one!”

“Dreams do come true after all.” Charles says faintly.  “Ah, would you mind letting me go?”  Not that it matters, but he’s fairly certain Wade is about two seconds away from cracking his ribs and if Charles is going to have a choice in the matter, he’d rather not die with a punctured lung.

“That’s fate, man,” Wade says, but mercifully lets go.  “Yo, what’s that?”

Charles listens.  He can faintly hear Tony outside, still shouting his name.  If Creed has managed to land yet, it’ll certainly be no secret where Tony Stark is.  “That’s my friend,” he says, “he’s worried because I was just eaten by this plant.”

“Yeah, man, what are you thinking,” Wade says, “getting eaten by a plant.”

Charles wonders if this is a good time to bring up the fact again that Wade has also been eaten by a plant.

Wade points at him.  “I’m going to help you out, bro,” he says, “so don’t worry.”

Funnily enough, the only thought that passes through Charles’ head next is _Wade Wilson is going to meet Tony Stark_ followed shortly by _Tony Stark is going to meet Wade Wilson_ and both of those thoughts are actually pretty terrifying, oh god.

It’s a nice universe.  Charles is rather fond of it.  Well, it was swell while it lasted.

And then Wade is suddenly holding his two swords, pulling them out of god knows where, and Charles instinctively knows what’s going to happen next.

“I AM DEADPOOL!” Wade shouts, and it’s not like Charles had forgotten or anything, Jesus.

At this point, Charles could probably say it along with him.

Then Charles has to duck down into the goo or otherwise lose his head as Wade swings his swords in a wide arc, slicing through the side of the outrageous plant with another wild cry.  The world tilts sideways and Charles spills out of the plant’s stomach in a waterfall of slime, splattering out onto the ground, and he gags on the sudden breath of fresh air.

Then he chokes when Wade lands on top of him—and Jesus, it’s a miracle he wasn’t impaled by either of those blades.

“Holy shit, what the _fuck_ —” Tony’s voice is much closer now, cursing up a storm, and two hands grab onto Charles and drag him backwards out from underneath Wade, who is currently laughing like a maniac.

“Just like old times,” Charles mumbles, slightly dazed.  The outrageous plant’s vines are writhing as it dies, and Tony curses again as one of them swings by overhead, narrowly missing him.

“What the _fuck_ , Charles.” Tony lets him drop, circling around in front of him and looking down at him with a strange expression on his face that Charles can’t quite place.  “Charles—what—” Tony’s lips move soundlessly for a moment, unable to form articulate words.

“What?” Charles asks, looking up at him wearily.  The way Tony is standing over him is blocking out the sun, which is actually sort of nice.

Tony grimaces, and then leans down to offer him a hand up.  “You—you didn’t fight back.  You didn’t even _struggle_.”  He sounds vaguely hurt by this, concern and anger all rolled into one, and also puzzled, as if he can’t figure out why.

Charles lets himself be pulled up, balancing awkwardly with most of his weight on his good leg.  He knows what this is about.  “Well—no.  I didn’t.”

“Well—well why not?” Tony demands, folding his arms.

Charles looks at him for a few moments before answering.  “Because isn’t that the point?” he asks gently, without vehemence.  “We’re being hunted.  It doesn’t matter one way or the other if I get eaten by a plant or if Creed catches me and turns me over to the Nyrulians.”  He pauses, because it’s not as if he’s eager to die.  He’s just accepting the inevitable.  “You know as well as I do that both scenarios have the same ending.”

Tony doesn’t say anything at first either, and Charles knows why.  He can put on as much of a tough act as he wants, and pretend that he’s ready to die, but in reality Tony Stark is meant to live, because he clings to life with the most dogged determination that Charles has ever seen.  For a split second Charles is breathless with a terrible, terrible anger for how Tony has been dropped into this dead-end situation, which people like Charles are better suited for.  Charles is able to accept his fate, he thinks, but it is Tony’s natural, responding instinct to fight things like fate every single step of the way, because Tony has always wanted— _needed_ —to carve his own way.

“It’s not like you to give up,” Tony says eventually, because not only is he determined, he’s stubborn.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to be like anymore.” Charles admits.

Tony narrows his eyes.  “You can’t just lie down and—”

“Tony,” Charles interrupts him quietly, but his voice shakes with emotion, “have you ever loved someone with every single fiber of your being?”

What follows is a heavy silence, and Tony looks away.

“Imagine that they’re gone,” Charles continues, because he already knows what Tony’s answer is, “so what are you supposed to do.  What am _I_ supposed to _do_?”  His voice cracks on the last syllable.

He’s shaking slightly with the effort of keeping his breathing steady, fingernails digging almost painfully into his palms where his fists have clenched.  Erik is dead. 

Even the light of supernovas fade.

Charles cannot put into words how he feels because Erik was gravity.  Erik was the only constant in his life, steady and solid and _never not there_ , even when Charles was still back in the Academy and Erik was off climbing the ranks.  Before Erik, Charles had never had anyone to put stock into, nor anyone who ever has put stock into him.  Erik was his best friend.  The love of his life.

Was.

“But dude,” Wade says, appearing on the peripheral of Charles’ vision as he joins them, oddly solemn, “what would _he_ want you to do?”

Charles starts to shake his head.  “I don’t—”

The bounty hunter holds up a hand, two of his fingers crossed.  “You and that War-Prince, yeah?  I think you _do_ know, bro, but you’re just giving up because it’s easier.”

Charles wants to protest, but Wade is right.  Then he realizes that he actually wanted to protest.

Wade grins at him, and no doubt at whatever asinine expression has crossed Charles’ face.  “See?  You’re not done yet, man.”

Charles is nearly able to choke out a laugh, because once again he is covered in slime and just got told by Wade Wilson.

“He would want to fight,” Charles says when he feels that he isn’t in danger of actually giving in to the urge to laugh, because that would quickly turn into ugly sobs and he’s already sworn to himself that he’s not going to cry, “so he’d probably want me to fight.”  He pauses to take another steadying breath.  “We can’t win, though.”

Wade shrugs, like it’s nothing.  “I told you that I’d help you out, bro.”

“Who exactly _are_ you?” Tony asks, a little skeptical, and oh right, as far as the engineer knows Wade is the crazy man that Charles somehow found in the stomach of an outrageous plant.

Well.  The real truth isn’t far off from that anyway.  If Tony only knew.

“Dude,” Charles says very, very seriously, “he’s Deadpool.”

 

X

 

“And what,” Scott says tersely, “exactly is the End Game Directive.  _Sir_.”

Erik looks tired.  Hell, Scott knows for a fact that the War-Prince is exhausted, both physically and mentally.  But after Raven’s last cool statement, Erik looks practically _ancient_ , world-weary and, Scott thinks with a small trickle of uncertainty, lost—Erik is someone he’s used to seeing calm and confident and in control, but now it’s more as if the War-Prince is struggling to stay afloat, desperately trying to keep his head above water but slowly and surely sinking as he loses energy and direction.

“Were you able to crack the encryption code on HF33427.” Erik says after a long moment instead of answering, finally snapping out of whatever train of thought he’d fallen into.

“Not entirely,” Scott admits, because fuck, that code was basically gibberish in three different dialects, “but I was able to get that it has something to do with Raven.”

“It has everything to do with Raven,” Erik says shortly, even as he brings his hands up to rub at his temples.  “I suppose you’re to blame for this?”

The question is directed to Raven herself, who nods her head.  “Yes sir.  As Directive Zero states—”

“Yes, you said so before.” Erik cuts her off wearily, and with much more success as the AI falls silent.  He’s silent for a minute, and Scott can practically hear the gears turning in the War-Prince’s head.  Finally he glances back at the TO.  “That was the file Marko was trying to locate, wasn’t it.”

Scott nods grimly.  It’d been the first thing he’d noticed about the file when Raven had sent it to him, as soon as Steve had left the ship.  “Someone before me tried to tamper with it.  Fortunately no one’s as good as I am, damn it, so they didn’t get past the first firewall in there, but my money’s on Marko.  He wanted to know something about Raven.”

“And our question is, sir,” Logan says from around his cigar, his voice falsely pleasant, “what the fuck might that be?”

“Directive Zero, or the End Game Directive,” Erik says instead, and Scott resists the urge to grind his teeth because what the fuck, stop avoiding the fucking question, “can only be initiated by Raven herself.  Only she can calculate whether or not Directive Zero should or should not be implemented.”

“‘End Game,’” Logan quotes, eyebrows raised.  “So she thinks we’re pretty damn screwed.”

“Put simply.” Erik allows.  “Directive Zero, essentially, allows Raven to reveal HF33427 to anyone on the ship above Level 9 clearance.  Those individuals have been previously determined by me.”

“And who might they be?”  Scott demands.  He’s tired of bullshit, he wants answers— _all_ of them.  “Me, Logan, who else?”

“You and Logan are the only two.” Erik says flatly, pointedly not looking at either of them.

Oh.

That’s.  Well.

“What about Charles?” Logan asks, while Scott tries his damndest not to feel all touched and shit.

Erik takes a steadying breath.  “Charles already knows the contents of HF33427.  He’s known all along.”

Well of course he fucking has, Scott wants to say, you’ve only been married to each other for goddamn years even though it took you about that long to figure it the fuck out.  Instead he says, “Jesus Christ, Erik, just tell us what the fuck this is all about.”

Erik drags a hand down his face, and alright, it’s really weirding Scott out to see the War-Prince looking so _human_.  “This ship wasn’t built by the Keflars.”

Full stop.

“What,” Scott says blankly.

“The fuck,” Logan adds.

“It has the name,” Scott says when Erik doesn’t answer right away, “right?  Didn’t they make you name it Heartsteel?  And isn’t that like, you know, what they do when they build a ship?”

“This ship is the same standard ship that is commissioned by the Fleet for all Commanders,” Erik says, “engineered and built on Second Earth, just like all the others.”

“But—”

“The only thing left out of the design plans was an in-ship AI,” Erik overrides him firmly, “because I happened to have one already.”

“Wait,” Scott says, mind racing, “Raven is _downloadable_?”

Erik nods his head once.  “She was my gift from the Keflars.  Not the whole ship.  Just Raven.”

Scott looks over at the hologram of the AI, wrapping his mind around it.  Ship AIs are usually hardwired to the ship, ingrained into the ship’s tech and therefore irremovable.  But if Raven can be passed around on a goddamn floppy disk, like something straight out of First Earth’s twentieth century…

“The HF is her master file, isn’t it,” he says, staring hard at the War-Prince, “and the Zero Directive converts her into a zip.”

“Correct, Legionnaire Summers.” Raven says calmly.

“So she’s calculated that we’re at a big enough risk as to where we might need to jump ship, and has prepared herself to be taken along.”

“Yes, Summers,” Erik says, looking tired again.

“Stark’s warning,” Scott says quickly, several pieces of the puzzle lining up in his head at once, “he warned you and Charles, told you to get the fuck out.  He knew that someone leaked info to the Nyrulians about Raven—don’t tell me some of the higher-ups weren’t aware at the very least that you had Keflar tech on this ship—so his warning makes sense.  Someone in the Fleet betrayed you, and the Nyrulians were interested.  So they sent Marko to try and steal it, but _fuck_ , when that failed, they went after the Keflars themselves— _that’s_ why they blew up the Hejmo.”

Erik has covered his eyes with one hand again, and doesn’t answer, his mouth a tightly controlled, thin line.  Scott feels himself reeling as he looks back over at Raven, because he knows he’s right.  The Nyrulians want Raven’s tech.  The Keflars refused to grant it to them, so they were slaughtered.  And now Scott is sitting on the only damn ship in the universe that still has it.

Scott can see the appeal, though.  Raven’s Mystique Mode is without a doubt the best cloaking system in existence—now that he’s thinking about it, it’s the same technology that the Hejmo had, and holy _shit_ , he’s been sitting on a mini Hejmo all this time without ever realizing it—so no wonder the Nyrulians are desperate to get ahold of it.  He can only imagine what they’d do with it once they had it, and shakes his head, resisting the urge to laugh helplessly—damn the Keflars for making it, but oh wait; they’ve already paid in full.

_Fuck_.

“Fury’s started to figure it out,” he says aloud, voice hoarse now, “that’s why he tried to arrest Charles.  He doesn’t have all the pieces yet, but he knows it has to do with the Heartsteel _somehow_ , and fuck me if that motherfucker isn’t dogged as hell, so he pegged Charles as a criminal so we’d have to sidle up to his Ionstar for Charles to turn himself in.  I’ll bet you every last fucking cent to my name that as soon as we got there, Charles would be forgotten about and the Heartsteel would be under a full investigation.”

Logan has been chewing contemplatively on his cigar, but now he clears his throat.  “I’m not saying I don’t agree with you, Summers, because I do,” he says gruffly, “but where does Charles fit in all of this for the _Nyrulians_?  Because obviously they want him really fucking bad, and have since the get-go.”

Scott opens his mouth, and then stops.  “I don’t know,” he admits.  “Grabbing him for codes and channels for the Fleet doesn’t make sense anymore, if it was really Raven’s tech they’re after.”

“Erik.” Logan regards the War-Prince solemnly.  “Any ideas?”

Scott nearly jumps out of his skin when the War-Prince abruptly swings his legs over the side of the medical bay bed, standing up and pacing a few feet away.  “What the fuck, you shouldn’t be—”

“I know exactly why they took him,” Erik says without turning around, his fists clenched and his voice low and rough, and something about it sort of makes Scott’s heart stop, “but they _got it wrong_.”

 

X

 

Tony Stark, billionaire playboy philanthropist (his own definition), son of brilliant engineer and inventor Howard Stark, sole owner of (what was left) of Stark Industries, with an IQ so high they’d had to redefine the old scale for him, Intergalactic Institute of Technology drop-out (he got bored), Vulcan Science Academy drop-out (even worse), Starfleet Academy drop-out (don’t even fucking ask), is stuck in a vegetable-covered rock riddled with man-eating plants—they’d only found one so far, but Tony knows Charles and his luck.

His only companions in this great adventure are Charles Xavier, his dismal luck—a character all on its own, certainly—and someone who by all existent and yet-to-be-created definitions of the word, is _absolutely fucking insane_.

No, okay, Tony knows ‘inspired’, Tony knows ‘different’, Tony certainly fucking know ‘Savant’, but this guys is just _unbalanced_.

“—you know? But I escaped because fuck that shit, I’m—”

“Deadpool,” Tony sighs, nodding and waving a hand to speed the tale along.  “Yes, you’ve mentioned that before.”

“You’re wasting your breath,” Charles pants, making his absolute best—that’s Charles for you, earnest little puppy—not to lean all of his weight on Tony’s shoulder.  “He’ll just keep on saying it.”

“Where did you find this… person, again?”

“I found him in the air ducts of a Nyrulian ship.”

“Ew, Charles, didn’t your mom tell you not to pick up things from weird places?  You don’t know where he’s been.  I don’t think we can keep him.”

This is one of the things no one knows about Tony Stark: he jokes about the shit that hurt you the most because he knows they hurt you, and he lives on the hope that, someday, he’ll find you and joke and it won’t hurt anymore, and you’ll have moved on, and he’ll have to find some other painful shit to make light of.  Some people might think he does it to show you he knows your weaknesses, and admittedly that is sometimes the case, but, mostly, Tony’s problem is he cares too damn much.

 “Good luck losing him,” sighs Charles.

Charles, Tony realizes, has become a _sigh-y_ sort of person.  He sighs a lot.  And alright, maybe the leg and the kidnapping and almost getting killed and the escape and the living human-eating plant might be a good excuse for all the dramatic exhaling, so Tony hasn’t said anything, but there’s a lot of air coming out of Charles’ lips accompanied by sad, breathy little sounds.  Just saying.

“Do we like, have a plan, bros?”

Tony shifts his grip on Charles’ side to haul him in closer and take a little bit more of the weight from his bad leg, and grits his teeth.

“We need cover.  Psychotic asshole of doom probably has heat sensors in his ship, so we need to find a place that will either shield out heat signature, or a place where we can disguise it.”

He stops momentarily, giving Charles a moment to catch his breath and looking around, quick assessing eyes and sharp attention.  He wishes he was better at strategizing stuff.  Give Tony a paperclip and piece of string and he will build you a bomb, but give him a situation like this one and he’s just treading water.  This isn’t his stuff.   This is Steve’s stuff.  Steve’s the one that always knows what the fuck to do in any situation, how to _fix_ shit, who needs to do what.

“What, like a sauna or something?” Deadpool gives one quick pivot on his own axis, surprisingly graceful on his feet, and then says sadly, “No Turkish baths around, man.”

Asking ‘what’ to anything incomprehensible that comes out of Deadpool’s mouth is asking ‘what’ to _everything_ that comes out of his mouth, so Tony lets that slide.

“Look, this place is like a tropical jungle,” he says patiently.  “Do me a favor, play explorer and go have a look around.  See if you can find some sort of swamp, or hot pools of water.  Anything that is hot and damp, that will do the trick.”

“We need to get to Wade’s ship,” Charles says with difficulty.

“I know,” Tony squeezes his side.  “But you need to sit down and I need to look at that leg.  We need a time-out, ok?  Deadpool, for Charles.”

“Anything, bro,” says Deadpool, oddly solemn, and after a second he breaks away from them, steps quick and easy on the uneven terrain.

Tony helps Charles to a fallen, moss-covered and half-rotted log, and helps him sit down.

“When we do get to the ship,” Charles says, struggling for breath in the damp, hot atmosphere.  Charles, Tony thinks, has seen some mileage lately.  He could do with a week lying on his back in a beach on Pellinore-4, surrounded by beautiful young women with curves where they matter.  Or, well, more realistically, getting his cock sucked by Erik Lehnsherr.  Paradise is such a subjective thing, after all.

“I still feel like I’m missing something,” mutters Tony, pacing and rubbings his hair, as if the increased blood flow to his head might help him discover some previously overlooked piece of information.  He can almost imagine Steve’s quick little head tilt, there and gone, and his words: _Not enough data.  I need more._

 “Tony,” Charles shoves damp hair away from his eyes.  “We need to get to the Ionstar.”

Tony scoffs.  “Fury?  No fucking way in hell.”

“I have to give myself up,” Charles insists.

“I don’t think it’ll do any good anymore,” Tony shrugs.  “I doubt Fury actually thinks you helped that dickhead.  Hauling you in was just an excuse.  The problem is figuring out what the hell he’s _actually_ after.”

Charles spreads his hands, palm-up, in a gesture of surrender and ignorance.

“Tony, I’m…I feel like I’m at the end of my rope here.  I don’t know what to do or where to go anymore.”  He stops, and god _damn_ it, his voice is wavering again and Tony’s not sure that he’ll be able to handle it if Charles really does break down.  “Erik is—”

“You don’t actually know that,” Tony bites out, having had quite enough of this for the day.  “You don’t get to call it until we see a body on a table.  And you know what? I don’t—”

He stops abruptly because an ear-splitting shriek tears across the air, making their hearts pound.  It ends almost as soon as it’s began, but it leaves them reeling.  Tony glances at Charles and then, wordless, shoots up the hill in the direction Deadpool went.  Not because Tony Stark is the battle-charging sort, but because Deadpool is their only way out of this tropical hell unless they’re willing to return to Victor’s tender mercies, so they need him alive.

“What is—”

“This plant tried to eat me, man!” says Wade, apparently torn—from what Tony can tell of his tone of voice—between shock and indignation.  Which is really just unnecessary considering they found him _inside_ a man-eating plant, it’s perfectly obvious that they are a life form that is present in this planet, anyone with half a mind would figure that out, and oh.

“Yeah,” Tony says.  “That might happen often, so watch out.  Nice job with the swords, though.”

“They’re my babies,” coos Wade, and cleans off the blades of his lethal babies on the closest vine of the dead plant he just slaughtered.  Hopefully they aren’t endangered or something, but then again at the rate they’re running into them, Tony thinks that this place could use a good lawnmower or eight.

“Okay, Hattori Hanzo, but did you find somewhere to rest or not?”

“We don’t need to, smarty,” Wade turns around and points imperiously in the direction of a nearby hill.  “I know this place!  My baby’s right behind the hill.”

“Oh good,” Tony says, so relieved his knees might go weak.  Charles needs medical attention and rest urgently and Tony has to get on the line with someone that can get them out of this fucking mess—preferably Steve, because Steve can get you out of messes and sew them up tight and hermetic so they never come bite your ass five, ten, fifteen years down the line, which is Tony’s life, really.

So Tony rushes back to where Charles is sitting, looking distinctly concerned, pulls him up with no little amount of effort, and helps him hobble precariously toward the hill.

“I wonder what the fuck Wade was doing here in the first place,” he mumbles aloud after a moment, because Charles’ labored breathing and weakened grip is making his hair stand on end.

Tony can deal with broken down machinery, he can fix any sort of space-ship that has incurred in technical issues, he can make a transmitter from salty water and a wire, he can figure out where the fuck he’s standing by the position of the stars in the sky—Steve’s weird, alright, he has weird hobbies, shut up—but he doesn’t know how the fuck you put stitches in someone’s skin, let alone re-align and immobilize broken limbs.  Tony can’t fix _people_.  He can’t even fix himself, for fuck’s sake.

They make their way painfully up the hill, and Tony’s already trying to figure out who he’s going to try to contact when they crest it and get an open, wide view into a softly inclined valley nestled between velvet-wrapped green hills.  Tony’s got expectations on what Wade’s ship is going to look like considering the general massive insanity the man wears like skin, but he doesn’t get to see if his initial hypothesis went wide or not because _the ship isn’t there_.

“Huh,” says Wade, scratching his head.  “Wrong valley.  Hold on—it’s that hill!”

“Tell me you’re shitting me,” Tony deadpans, feeling a flush of hot anger crawling up his spine.  Charles can barely stand on his one good leg and this asshole doesn’t even know where he parked his fucking ship.  How do these things happen to Tony Stark, huh?  What awful sins did he commit in some past life—actually, never mind.

It’s not like he hasn’t piled up enough sins in _this_ one.

“I’m sure he’s right, it must be the next one,” Charles mumbles, dropping his forehead to Tony’s shoulder.

Tony sighs—great, now he’s sigh-y too, thanks a lot, Chuck—carefully rearranges Charles’ weight against his side, and slowly and cautiously ambles them down the side of this hill and up the next one.  In the next valley, as gently curved as this one and similarly surrounded by picturesque little hills, there is—nothing.

Wade pulls a face.  Tony glares murderously at him and lowers Charles down to the damp grass.  He runs down the hill and up the neighboring one, which seems to me somewhat taller, to get a better look at the terrain.  Maybe Wade’s just disoriented.  A lot of these hills all look the same.

Actually…Tony looks over his shoulder, back in the direction they just came from.  Back there the place looks like the dregs of a tropical jungle; the borders are where the plants begin to become sporadic and are not as tightly packed as the thickest of the jungle.  But here and in front of them, the terrain changes almost abruptly to damp and velvety grass covered hills of softly inclined sides and elegantly declining valleys.

Tony notices that the part of the terrain that swells into hills appears to be gaining altitude as it approaches a faraway orogenic belt.  The lower lands seem to be tropical, while the higher lands are gradually shifting into mountainous terrains.  Tony pauses a moment, scanning the topography, as he considers that.  It doesn’t feel like a natural formation, honestly.

Could this be a terraformed planet?  It doesn’t look like the usual terraforming left-over either, though.  Bizarre.

Still, no sign of the stupid fucking ship anywhere as far as Toy can see.

Fuck.  Tony _hates_ taking charge of things.  He doesn’t do well in teams because he doesn’t like to take orders and he sure as hell doesn’t fucking like to _give_ them, either.  But Wade’s a malfunctioning psychopath and Charles is hanging from the last threads at the end of the proverbial rope, so he’s going to have to shoulder the responsibility.

One of the valleys  behind them and to their right is actually, Tony notices with relief, a small swamp.  It’ll probably be disgusting but Tony will fucking take it.

He trots down the hill and back up to where Charles and Wade are waiting and explains what he’s discovered.

“Do me a favor, go on over to that valley and make sure there aren’t any man-eating carnivore plants of doom or crocodiles or something waiting to eat some human leg, alright?  I’ll help Charles.”

“Roger that, dude,” Wade salutes and runs down the hill, trips, falls on his face, and rolls slowly down to the foot of the inclination.  As Tony stares disbelievingly he picks himself up, waves that everything’s fine, and starts climbing rather laboriously up the other hillside to get to the swamp, even though it’s much easier and obviously a hundred times more logical to go _around_.

Tony shakes his head and drops to the grass next to where Charles has curled forward over his legs, shaking slightly.  Sighing, the engineer rubs his hand up and down Charles’ back, trying to make him feel a little bit better.  Charles turns to him, looking absolutely wretched.

“What do I do after?” he murmurs, eyes worn down to the palest of blues, like sorrow’s bleached away the color.  “If Erik is—gone?”

Tony’s shoulders slump.  “One breath at a time, Charles.”

The Prince spreads his hands and opens his mouth, but no sounds come out and they go limp, hanging from his wrists.  Charles, Tony realizes suddenly, is a delicate sort of man, of thin willowy bones and long flat muscles.  There’s no bulk to him, no power to his body—though his hands, strangely enough, are very masculine.

“I wouldn’t be here,” he says finally, voice breaking. “If it wasn’t for him.  I would be long dead.”

“I know,” Tony says sadly.  “But you pulled through for him before, so try to pull through for him now again, ok?  We don’t _know_ he’s gone, Charles.  Maybe he’s in his ship going insane with worry.  I mean, it’s not every life you find the love of your life by letting them puke on your shoes.”

Charles winces.  “He didn’t exactly _let_ me.”

“So romantic,” Tony continues, noticing some animation returning to Charles’ usually expressive face.  Charles can’t lie worth a shit, poor bastard.  One would think Lehnsherr-Poker-Fucking-Face (unofficial Academy nickname) would teach him, but apparently that wasn’t the case.  “It’s the stuff of fairytales.  Fuck everlasting-love kisses, man.  Vomit’s the new pink.”

“Your method is so much better,” scowls Charles.  “Hitting them in the face.”

“He shouldn’t have gotten in the stupid fight anyway,” Tony says for what is the hundredth and twenty-seventh time (he’s been keeping track).  “I totally had it under control!”

“Tony, it was six against one.”

“They only needed one more to make it even!”

Charles shakes his head, lips curling up in a small smile.  “Steve saved your life, Tony.”

“That’s taking it a little far—” protests Tony, who never admits to having needed help at any point in his life, not even when he got himself stuck in the barrel of a rapidly-heating experimental turbine.  It’s a long story.  Alcohol was involved, not that anybody can’t figure that out on their own.

Charles laughs lightly and rubs a hand up and down his face roughly, should slumping to a defeated, weary slope.  Tony puts an arm around him and brings him in close, exhaling.  At least the Prince isn’t looking quite so lost anymore, even though he’s still far from okay.

“We’ll figure it out.”

“Hey bros,” Wade is screaming from the top of the hill, waving his swords. “It’s all clear and shit!”

“And shit,” sighs Tony, pulling himself to his feet and helping Charles up.

“His heart is in the right place,” offers Charles.

“On the left side of his chest?” grunts Tony, carefully maneuvering them down the slope.

 

X

 

Erik feels sick.

This is his fault.  He never should have dragged Charles into this, never should have invited him along all those years ago when he’d gotten an invitation from Edgar to the Hejmo, never should have accepted Edgar’s gift.

He should have realized what the Nyrulians were after.  And then he should have sent Charles off to the furthest, most remote part of the galaxy.  Should have warned Edgar that he’d gone too far, created technology too dangerous, should have been there to defend the Hejmo.

He never should have dragged Charles into this.

But Edgar had insisted, and Charles had looked so embarrassed but honored, and Erik hadn’t known then—but he should have, always should have—but he’d already been in love with Charles at that point, so he’d agreed and now the Nyrulians have the wrong man.

They are going to demand something that Charles is unable to give, and then they will kill him.

“Erik.” Logan says behind him, and Erik’s not sure when he and Scott decided that they could call him by his first name, but he’s certainly not going to stop them now—he’s hardly fit to be their commander anyway.  “Damn it, just tell us what the hell’s going on.”

Erik walks further away, moving over to one of the porthole windows of the med bay, staring out into space.  McCoy is nowhere to be seen, so Scott and Logan must have kicked him out before taking up residence beside his bed, waiting for him to wake.  The rest of the crew is probably waiting as well, restless and wondering what was going to happen to them next, with their Deputy gone and their Commander down for the count.

His entire body is sore, as if someone has stomped repeatedly on his ribs, and really he’s lucky that he’s even alive at this point, but beneath that every single nerve is on edge, not for himself but because he _needs to get to Charles_ , should already be going after him, but he forces himself to take a breath, and remain still, because he owes Scott and Logan this explanation, and then he owes his crew a choice.

Explanation first.

“The Keflars didn’t build this ship, but they did name it,” he says quietly, resting his forehead against the glass, “do either of you know why this ship is called the Heartsteel?”

“What does that have to do with—” Scott starts to snap.

“There might be a couple jokes floating around about your heart or your balls, depending on who’s telling them,” Logan interrupts Scott easily, much calmer, “but I get the feeling that ain’t the answer.”

“It’s a code.” Erik answers.  “Edgar liked his jokes.”

“What kind of code?” Scott asks, marginally less angry.

“It is _the_ code,” Erik replies heavily.  “Raven can prepare herself to be transferred all she likes, but she can’t do a thing with her files until she receives a very specific code.”

“Heartsteel.” Logan says.

“Yes.”

“They named the ship after the code?” Scott demands incredulously.  “Jesus Christ, that’s almost a little _too_ much of hiding in plain fucking sight.”

“That’s not all there is to it, is there.” Logan says, and Erik can feel the Helmsman’s gaze burning into the back of his head.

Still resting his forehead against the glass, Erik closes his eyes.  “No.”

Neither of them say anything, waiting.

“When Edgar gave Raven to me, Charles was with me.  That’s why he’s always known about Raven.  Edgar liked Charles—”

“Who fucking doesn’t,” Scott mutters, though not without a tiny edge of underlying fondness, “Jesus Christ.”

“—when he met him, and when I told Edgar that Charles was to be my Deputy, well.  As far as Edgar was concerned, that sealed it.  So he made Charles part of the code.”

“And how’s that?” Logan asks suspiciously.

“The code works in two parts,” Erik continues, “ _heart_ and _steel_.  _Steel_ has to be inputted first, and unseals Raven’s files.  It’s not as important as _heart_ , which initiates the file transfer.  Not just anyone can input the codes, though.  It has to be done by two specific people.”

“You and Charles,” Scott realizes, “of course.  You’re _steel_ , no doubt about it, so Charles must be _heart_.  That’s why the Nyrulians want him, he’s the one who _really_ holds the means to get Raven’s files moved.  _Fuck_.”

Erik shakes his head.  He wishes it were that way.  He wishes it were any way except the way that it already is.  “That’s part of the joke,” he says, helpless anger rolling in his gut, a bottomless well of rage directed towards _everything_ , “because Edgar knew anyone who figured out the code would assume that.”

“What do you mean?” Logan says, but Erik can tell that he already knows.

“Charles isn’t _heart_ ,” Erik says, “I am.”

 

X

 

The edges of his vision are beginning to blacken to fade dizzily to black by the time Tony lowers him gently down to the damp, soft ground by a stinking, lightly steaming pond.

“Okay, get your ship,” Tony is saying, but Charles is barely listening because oh, the ground is nice, he likes this ground.  He can be friends with this ground right here.   _Nice_ floor.

“Hey, hey, buddy,” Tony is abruptly at his side, and Charles knows he must have missed something, possibly blacked out for a minute.  “Hey, wake up, that’s it, there you are.  Keep your eyes open for me, deal?”

“I don’t have a head wound,” Charles complains, making an effort to lift his head from the moss.  “I could sleep.”

“Not for a minute,” pleads Tony, deftly undoing Charles’ uniform jacket to get to his pants.  He starts quickly undoing them, and ignoring Charles’ protests he carefully lowers them down his legs.

“Wow,” he says after a moment.  “You’re whiter than flour, that can’t be healthy.  Get some tanning lotion or something, man.”

“Is that your medical opinion?” Charles retorts.

“I’m an engineer, not a doctor,” sighs Tony, actually taking a serious look at Charles’ leg.

It really does look quite terrible.  The knee, still swollen from his previous injuries, is now back to its worse state, at least double its usual size, and darkening quickly towards a deep, little-promising purple.  His calf of his supposed-good leg, where the vines of the plant had caught him, is wrapped by lines of growing bruises, inflamed by the contusions, and feels hot and hard to the touch.  No wonder it hurts like hell.

“Do you have any known allergies?” Tony asks.

“To man-eating outrageous plants?” Charles stares at his friend.  “No worse than anyone else, I should think.”

Tony drags a hand down his face.  “This looks bad, ok?” he says, level Charles with a severe look.  “Seriously fucking bad.  I don’t see any punctures that might mean poison ivy of some kind or something but—I think some of these muscles are torn, Charles.  I shouldn’t have made you walk so much, your other leg is already fucked up enough, shit—”

“Don’t,” interrupts Charles, dropping back to lie on the soft damp moss.  “There was nothing else to do.  We needed to hide.”

Tony makes a soft sound on the back of his throat and looks fruitlessly around for something he might use to provide any sort of medical aid.  Nothing is available, so he settles for helping Charles back into his pants and getting to work on tearing a straight branch from a nearby tree to make a brace.

The branch comes away from the tree with a loud crack and splintering sound, and Tony sets about cleaning it from smaller stuff, and then getting some sort of rope to tie Charles’ leg.  Charles knows Tony; he doesn’t know a thing about medical aid, doesn’t know where to begin to fix a broken leg, but he can’t stand being idle.  Especially not when there are so many things he could and should be doing.

Waiting kills Tony, who goes through life as though patience is something that happens to other people, like running out of money or getting themselves locked outside their house.  Or asteroid, in his case.

“So what are we going to do once we get in Wade’s ship?” he asks.  “If you don’t want to go to Fury.”

“No fucking way,” Tony mutters.  “Leather Eye-Patch of Death can suck it.  We have to get Steve.”

Charles throws an arm over his face.  “Tony, stop playing dumb,” he says softly, and hears Tony stop what he’s doing.  “Steve was with us in the Heartsteel.  He was supposed to take me to the Ionstar after we got you.  You _know_ what he’s going to do now that I’m MIA.”

It takes a long moment for Tony to answer.

“Him and his fucking _duty_ ,” he says, and it’s that dark bitter tone he so often uses on regards to Steve these days.  Steve and his responsibilities and what he thinks he must do, what he feels is right, the kind of life he thinks he should lead.  Steve is almost sickeningly self-righteous, but even worse than that, he too easily sacrifices himself to the altar of what he believes he must do.

Charles moves his arm and turns his head to the side to look at Tony, where he’s sitting curled forward, face locked in a vague scowl.

“You both made your choices,” Charles murmurs.

Tony grunts.

“Why didn’t you ever tell us, though?  Logan and Scott and me.  About the Nyrulians asking for your help.”

The engineer shakes his head slowly.  “I didn’t want to get anyone involved that I could spare.  It was dangerous shit.  Steve, I mean—I didn’t want to tell _him_ , either, but he just…he’s—” he stops, and goes momentarily limp.

“Larger than life,” smiles Charles.  “I know the feeling. Erik—well. But, Tony, I could have helped you.”

“You have your own stuff to deal with.”

Charles frowns, but then changes the subject.  “I wonder how Cain _did_ escape the Oh-Bee.”

“Someone helped him,” says Tony darkly.  “There’s a rat in the OB and I sure as fuck hope Fury’s looking for it, because anyone with half a functioning eye can see you wouldn’t help Marko.  Not before, but certainly not after what he fucking did to you.  Sending you off to get killed.  Fucking _piece of shit_.”

“Steve thought Fury just wanted to have me close at hand so he could have some sway over Erik.”

Tony shrugs.  “He’s probably right.  I don’t know.  Steve gets plots better than I do.”

They lapse into silence as Tony gets to work securing Charles’ leg in a straight position, or as straight s the branch will allow.  Another one, they know, would be better, but all the ones around them are gnarled and knobby and Tony doesn’t dare leave Charles alone as he goes look for one they might make use of.

“Wade already assured us this place is safe,” Charles says reasonably.

“My-ship-is-behind-that-hill Wade?” Tony asks.

Fair point.

“You know,” Charles says after another moment.  “This planet’s geography is rather bizarre.”

“You’re preaching to the choir,” Tony mumbles.

“It’s really quite fascinating,” Charles sits up, mind racing. “It’s obviously an advanced for of high-speed terraforming.  We must be quite far from Third Earth, in a very distant quadrant.  Do you think this could be one of the trials?”

“Yeah, Charles,” Tony gives him an exasperated look.  “We’re stuck in the planetary equivalent of a guinea pig.  That’s exactly the conversation I want to have right now.  You know these rocks explode seven times out of ten, right?”

“That’s a false estimation,” scoffs Charles, whose scientific curiosity can overcome physical discomfort at any given time.  “It’s only five out of ten!”

“ _So_ much better,” gasps Tony, mocking and cheeky.

“I wonder, though, what wade is doing here,” Charles muses.  “He’s a bounty hunter.  He makes the odd job, he said.  Hm.”

“He’s probably stealing samples,” Tony shrugs.  “Behold, the natural evolution of corporate espionage.”

Charles frowns.  “He could get sentenced for that.  Several years of prison at least.”

Tony gives him an incredulous look.  “ _Bounty hunter_ ,” he reminds his friend. 

“It’s not technically illegal,” Charles protests.

“ _Technically_ ,” Tony rolls his eyes.

Charles mumbles something under his breath and lies down again, staring blearily up at the canopy of interwoven branches, the trees grown to braid their limbs together into a sort of ceiling.  Beneath it, the moss and the slowly rising steam of the pond have made the atmosphere damp and hot.  Sweat begins the bead across Charles’ skin.  He reaches up and loosens again the jacket of his uniform, letting it fall open to facilitate his breathing.

He lets his hand rest at the center of his chest, right between his pectorals where there’s a small, dark freckle Erik likes to kiss.  His chest beneath his hand aches, and his throat threatens to close. Damn it.

_Erik_.

But he pushes that away, because—that way lies madness, indeed.  Tony’s right.  Nothing is certain until confirmed.

Charles knows there are many logical points of view on this situation he has not taken the trouble to sit down and dissect as he normally would.  It’s against the ways of the scientists and scholars to ignore information due to personal comfort, and Charles is not proud to be doing just that—something he would certainly encourage his fellow scientists _not_ to do.  But his mind feels unbalanced, unhinged—as though its many lose threads have all gone in different directions, and the ideas and thoughts in Charles’ mind go down those different threats like electricity down superconductive wire, never to meet and connect into a coherent, logical hypothesis.

This, he thinks sourly, is the last betrayal.  His own mind has deserted him.

There’s a little voice, dark, and quiet and cruel with reality, that whispers like a curse, words like poison ivy crawling through Charles’ mind. _He’s gone_. Charles knows that little voice; it’s the same little voice that used to whisper _worthless_ and _pathetic_ and _no one loves you_ , and it’s the voice nothing could ever silence until the day Erik punched its owner in the face as they walked across campus together to class.

Not going to cry, he reminds himself wearily as his eyes begin to slip shut, even though Tony has ordered him not to sleep, and really, it’s only in the name of self-preservation that he closes them, keeping the dampness that has gathered in the corners from spilling out as he drifts off.

 

X

 

Logan’s ears are ringing.

“It should have been you that they’re after,” Scott says, Captain Fucking Obvious at work once again, “not Charles.  It should be you.”

Erik hasn’t turned away from the window.  Logan is glad, because he doesn’t want to see the kind of expression the War-Prince is wearing as he says, “Yes.  It should be me.”  Logan can hear the self-disgust.

“You didn’t know,” Logan says, watching the stiff lines of Erik’s back and feeling a little sick himself, “none of us had a clue.  Don’t start the fucking blame game, Lehnsherr, or I’ll do us all a favor and take you out now.”

That gets Erik to turn around, eyes narrowed.  The War-Prince’s rage has always been a deadly thing, and judging by the way Logan can see it burning in his eyes now, his rage is pretty much the only thing keeping him going at this point.  “What.”

“The way I see it, you’ve got two options.”  Logan holds up a finger.  “One, you can sit here and hate everything about this fucking situation, and nothing gets done.”  He flicks up a second finger.  “Or two, you can get your fucking shit together and we can go pull Charles out of hell again, because frankly, we’ve wasted enough damn time already waiting for you to recover.”

Erik’s jaw has clenched.  “I owed you this explanation.”

Logan inclines his head.  “Yeah, you damn well did.  Fucking _overdue_ , if you ask me.  But we’ve got the facts now.  The Nyrulians think they’re clever and know that we’ve got the Keflar’s tech, but they fucked up and grabbed the wrong guy.  But we need to get our heads out of our asses and do something, because a lot of people are already dead and that number ain’t going to stop climbing until they’ve got this tech and we’re _all_ dead, or if we put a stop to them.”

“Steve went back to the Ionstar to turn himself in and stall Fury,” Scott adds, “but he doesn’t know about all of this shit about Raven.  He told us to go save Charles and Stark.  The least we can do is use the time he’s bought us on that front.”

“I’m going after Charles,” Erik says flatly, “I expect you both to follow me.”

Scott shows all of his teeth in a grin that makes him look exactly like what he is—a homicidal maniac—and Logan snorts, because at least it’s finally not a fucking question anymore.

“But,” Erik says, moving across the med bay to the ship’s log, tapping the screen once, “secrecy is moot at this point.  We’ve all probably been already classified as criminals by the Fleet.  The rest of the crew deserves to know what’s happened.”  He pauses as he pulls up a control pad.  “And then they need to make their choice.”

“No one’s going to leave.” Logan states. 

“If they do they’re fucking cowards,” Scott spits, already scornful.

“No one will be blamed for leaving,” Erik says quietly without turning around, “I won’t condemn someone for wanting to survive.”

That shuts Scott up, and Logan just nods.  He already knows that it’s going to be a suicide mission.  He exchanges a glance with Scott.  They’re ready.  They both want to be here. 

They both know what that means.

As they watch, Erik straightens, drawing himself up to his full height, transforming back into War-Prince Erik Lehnsherr; a mask that he pulls down into place over his shaken interior that he has allowed Scott and Logan to see.  Logan can maybe see now why Charles has been in love with the bastard for all these years, now; beneath that harsh and cutting exterior, the War-Prince cares deeply for his crew and will fight till the end for those most important to him.

Not such an asshole after all, even if he likes to act like it.

“Page all stations, Raven.” Erik says, and takes a deep breath.

Raven lets out a chime.  “Attention all crew members.”

“This is your Commander speaking,” Erik begins, his voice even and measured, “several hours ago, Deputy Commander Prince Charles Xavier was taken hostage.  We have every reason to believe that he will be taken to the Nyrulians.  You all know as well as I do the fate that awaits him there.

“Prior to his capture, Prince Xavier was accused by Paladin Nicholas Fury of aiding the Empire Criminal Cain Marko in escaping from the Oh-Bee Strontium.  As far-fetched and ludicrous as these charges may seem, as it stands, Prince Xavier is a criminal as far as the Fleet is concerned.

“As far as _I_ am concerned, Prince Xavier is no criminal, and deserves the same response we gave last time.  I intend to do everything within my power to see the Prince safely returned from the grasp of the Nyrulians, so that he can rightfully clear his name.

“That being said, as active crew members of this ship, you all deserve a choice.”  Erik pauses for breath, and Logan notes that it’s a little longer than perhaps he normally would.  McCoy might have patched him up like magic, but there’s no way the War-Prince isn’t feeling the consequences—all the medical technology in the galaxy can’t erase being shot at close range by a rifle phaser.  “The act of going after the Prince will essentially label the Heartsteel as AWOL, and anyone aboard her as a criminal.  This mission also has a high chance of failing.  It is a suicide mission.

“I will not force anyone to abandon the Fleet or the Empire.  If you wish to return to the Fleet, you have exactly half an hour after the end of this message to make your way down to the shuttles and disembark from the Heartsteel peacefully.  Anyone who remains onboard after the half hour passes I will assume has made their decision to aid in this mission as much as they possibly can.

“I expect all of you will do what you feel most is right.  This is War-Prince Erik Lehnsherr out.  End of transmission.”

“No one’s going to leave,” Scott repeats Logan as soon as Raven cuts the transmission, “they’re all going to stay.”

“I know.” Erik says heavily.  “They wouldn’t be on my ship if they weren’t loyal to the end.  But when we’re gunned down by Nyrulians I’ll know at least that everyone truly wanted to be here.”

Logan doesn’t need to be a goddamn mind reader to know that Erik has one goal, and one goal only—reaching Charles.  After that, Logan knows, is where things are going to start getting murky.

“ _If_ ,” Logan corrects him calmly anyway, because they’ll deal with that when they get there, “last I checked, you ain’t a goddamn fortuneteller, so stop predicting the future.  We’re going to go in, grab Charles, and get the fuck out.  Just like last time.”

“Logan,” Erik says with a sound that could almost be a sad, weary laugh as his shoulders slump, “you’re not a fortuneteller either.”

 

X

 

Tony’s knowledge of medical assistance in the field is limited to what he was taught in the year and a half he actually did assist Starfleet Academy, which isn’t much.  Charles doesn’t have a head injury, so he should technically be fine to sleep, but the fact he’s sleeping this deeply freaks Tony the fuck out.

Charles doesn’t sleep deeply.  No abuse victim ever does, unless they are in a secure, closed environment that gives them safety.  A stinking swamp in the middle of fucking planetary nowhere isn’t a fine example of one such place.

Of course, no one can argue that Charles hasn’t gone through trying ordeals that demand him rest, both physical and mental—let’s not even go into emotional, fuck—but still.  Tony has taken Charles’ pulse three times now and Charles, abused little Charles who awakens immediately at physical touch, hasn’t even stirred.

Tony keeps telling himself Charles needs the rest and this is just his body reacting to emotional and physical trauma.  Sleep isn’t just something nice that happens in warm lazy Sunday afternoons, it’s a serious biological necessity the body relies on to make internal adjustments and recalibrate the system.  A mind going without sleep for days will, inevitably, fail.  So Charles really does fucking need the rest, and Tony knows, but Tony is alone in a swamp in the middle of nowhere being hunted down by Nyrulians and a psychopathic bounty hunter who might skin kittens alive as a hobby, so he’s freaking the fuck out and he wants his friend to be awake and conscious and alright.

There’s a reason Tony has very few friends he keeps in touch with.  Lately more than ever, he’s had to drift away from most of them, in order to keep them safe—something he knows is as dangerous to himself as keeping them close was dangerous to them.  Tony’s not the kind of man built to be alone, and he knows it.  He gets wrapped up in himself, forgets to eat or sleep, drinks too much.

Self-destructive, was what Steve had called him.  And Steve was very rarely amiss on his judgment of people.

Not that it pays in any way to think about Steve now, Tony thinks sourly.  Not now when Steve is probably already delivering himself to Fury’s leather-covered claws.  Steve is as self-sacrificing as Tony is selfish, and neither of them was any less self-destructive than the other.  Steve just covers it up better because people are too busy looking at how bright and mild and polite he is.  A very pretty face to cover all the broken shards.

“We’re all a little crazy here,” Tony mutters, rubbing his hands roughly up and down his face.

He bats idly at a bug buzzing vaguely near the vicinity of Charles’ nose, and feels weighed down and crushed by the heat and humidity.  He wonders musingly in what stage of terraforming this moon is.  They’ve truly made amazing advances in the process lately.  He knows because he’s been hacking into the Vulcan Science Academy database to check.  They really need to upgrade their security systems.  Maybe he’ll consult with them.

If he survives this mess.

He startles out of his thoughts when the whining of a high-power engine cuts through the mellow silken of the swamp.  Alarmed, Tony grabs Charles’ shoulder and roughly shakes him awake.  The Prince jerks out of sleep badly, eyes wild, terror lurking behind his eyes.  Tony immediately moves back and raises his hands to show his palms; no harm intended, no arms wielded.

“It’s okay, it’s just me, Tony,” he says soothingly, eyes darting around.  “I’m sorry, but you need to wake up.”

“What,” asks Charles fuzzily, blinking confusion out of his gaze.  “What’s going on?” he pauses a moment as he recognizes the sound of engines.  “What ship is that?”

“I don’t know,” Tony hisses, motioning for Charles to stay down—like he has a choice, both his legs are mangled—and moving, crouched, to where the canopy allows a view of the sky.

It’s a—thing.  It flies.  It’s silver.  It’s freaking round.  It’s a round freaking silver space ship, it’s a silver _space-ball_ , for fuck’s sake, it’s a giant space bowling ball with a huge sunken eye in the middle, who the fuck designed this atrocious—oh god.

“Oh fuck,” Tony stands up and runs to the edge of the swamp where the—the ship, if you want to call it that—is landing.  “Oh _shit_.”

“Hey, bro!” Wade’s voice booms out from loudspeakers, and as the ship lands on its oddly delicate four legs, a gangway begins to descend and the glossy door slides open.

“Oh my god, is this the Heart of Gold!?” Tony demands in a tiny little voice, throat dry.

“It’s my baby!” Wade runs down the gangway.  “Where’s Charles, smarty?”

“How the hell did you get this ship?  It’s one of a kind!  It’s unique.  It’s been missing for like a decade!”

“I found it.”

“You found it,” Tony gives him an incredulous look.  “You just _found_ one of the most advanced ships this side of the Universe, the last ship designed by the Bleebroxes, the only culture out there who could even match the Keflars, before they disappeared completely—you found it, lying around, is that it?”

“Yeah, man,” Wade shrugs.  “Isn’t she a beauty?  I call her Bright Morning Sun Rising Over the Tall Craggy Mountains While the Silvery Mist Curls Gently Through the Trees on a Light Breeze that Wafts the Smell of the Cooling Pie Sitting on the Windowsill Throughout the Entire Log Cabin.  Where’s the princess?”

Tony stares.  “Of course you do,” he says wearily.  Then he shakes himself, gathers himself up, and motions for Wade to follow.  “Let’s get Charles and get the hell out of this rock.”

“Now you’re taking, brainy!”

“Is everything alright?  Oh, Wade, it’s you.  Did you find Bright Morning Sun Rising Over the Tall Craggy Mountains While the Silvery Mist Curls Gently Through the Trees on a Light Breeze that Wafts the Smell of the Cooling Pie Sitting on the Windowsill Throughout the Entire Log Cabin?”

Wade looks visibly moved as he carefully helps Charles up to his feet and puts the Prince’s arm around his shoulders.  “You still remember.  You’re a real friend, Your Majesty.”

“Seriously?”  Tony gapes, slipping beneath Charles’ other arm so that, between the two of them, Charles must only make the smallest effort to walk.

Wade gives him a hurt sort of kicked puppy look.

“It’s important,” explains Charles, as if this makes any sort of sense at all, which it does not, let the Universe know this does not make any sort of sense, let that be printed, framed and hung, let it be engraved on Tony’s gravestone which is going to be in this fucking rock because Wade isn’t fucking moving.

“But you’re like, super smart,” says the wounded bounty-hunter in a whine.

Tony cannot, _cannot_ , believe his poor fucking luck.

“Bright Morning Sun Rising Over the Tall Craggy Mountains While the Silvery Mist Curls Gently Through the Trees on a Light Breeze that Wafts the Smell of the Cooling Pie Sitting on the Windowsill Throughout the Entire Log Cabin,” he parrots loftily.  “Don’t test my genius, peasants.”

They get Charles up the gangway, through the corridors and across the doors—they make a creepy sort of breathy sigh as they open which is absolutely _not alright_ —and finally stretched out in the main cabin couch (who has a couch in the main cabin?  How do these sort of random things occur around the void of logic that is Wade Wilson?  Tony gives up asking).  Things are going fairly well at this point, which is of course when Victor’s Creed massive ship shows up out of fucking nowhere.

Tony feels himself go pale as Wade starts up the shielding systems and prepares the ship for take-off.

A beep announced a hailing frequency.  Tony glances around, keep eyes taking in the consoles and organizing them immediately in his mind.  Left to right, up-down, according to what is needed the most with more frequency.  Central core console is flight control, shielding, navigation, life support, communications.  The console is split in two for two pilots; Wade’s is taking up the bulk of the control for now, but a few swift alterations illuminate Tony’s side, creating twin screens.

“How well can you fly this?” he asks.

“Never crashed it,” answers Wade, and his tone makes Tony realize something very, very fucking bad.

Central core console is flight control, shielding, navigation, life support, communications.

“Where are the weapons?”

“It’s a civilian ship,” Wade sounds uncharacteristically grim.  “It doesn’t have any.”

Tony feels cold wash down his spine.

“Get us out of here,” Charles says from the couch, strained.

Tony doesn’t turn around to look at him because horror and the severity of the situation are beginning to run through his veins like acid.  Instead he manipulates the screen to pull up navigation and flight controls, trying to figure out a way to get them out of here as soon as fucking possible.

The console beeps again.

“Pick up the comm,” Charles says.

“No fucking way,” Tony snaps, mind racing with calculations.

“It’ll buy us time, Tony.”

Wade makes an executive decision, pressing the pads of his fingers over one of the blinking lips and flipping it, like dealing out cards at a table, to the main viewscreen.

Victor’s sneering face fills the screen.

“Whoa,” says Wade. “Your pores are huge.”

“I’m going to fucking blow your ship out of the Universe if you don’t get out of it and come back here in the next five minutes.”

Charles says something and Victor starts yelling.  Tony loses track of the conversation because he’s too busy multi-tasking at the console.  The shielding is powerful, but without weapons there’s nothing they can do against a ship the size of Victor’s.  Eventually, the shielding is going to splinter under all that firepower.

What they need to do is out-run Victor—a maneuver made impossible by the ship’s looming proximity, which makes it impossible to take off.  Tony is a good fucking pilot, but he’s not as good as Logan, who would have this ship up in the sky and running in seconds.  He doesn’t know the shortcuts and directives necessary to do what he needs the ship to do, so he has to input the orders manually, which means finding every single platform and keying in the necessary codes.   Wade probably knows how to do it faster, but Tony can’t tell him what he needs, not with Victor right in front of them and listening.

This ship has three main engine turbines and twelve minor directional thrusters.  It takes Tony four minutes to gain control of every single directional thruster and aim it precisely the way he wants them.

Once that’s done, he takes a breath.

Victor is saying, “—render peacefully—”

Tony says “Fuck you” and ignites the thrusters.  Six of them are aimed right at the face of Victor’s ship and at full blast, creating enough turbulence and hot air to unbalance the ship’s own hover.  In the split second of time it takes the ship to regain balance, Tony has fired up the turbines and shot the ship into the sky and through the atmosphere.

“Woohoo!” Wade punches the air.  “That was awesome! Booya!”

“Booya,” mutters Tony, too busy with the consoles to rejoice.  “Where’s the space-jump control?”

“It’s not reloaded yet.”

Tony turns slowly to face him.  “What.”

Wade pulls up a screen and shows him a slowly wheeling circle.  “It takes ages to load, man.  It’s a design flaw.”

“Tony?” Charles asks, uneasy.  “What can you do?”

Nothing.  There’s nothing to do.   He can’t fucking do a single thing.  It’s not reloading, it’s cooling down.  The ship has safety features that demand the acceleration engine cool down completely before another jump can be made.  Wade probably came from very far away to get to this fucking rock, and used up all the refrigerating gel.  It has to be cold again before the safe-guards in the engine unlock and allow a jump.

They’re stuck.  They’re fucking stuck.

“This ship has to be fast,” Charles says.

“Victor’s has Vulcan jellyfish technology,” Tony says flatly.  “We can’t outrun that.”

His fingers are dancing at dizzying speeds over the console, bringing to the fore the communications screen and the triangulation charts.  The ship is flying at top speed, but it won’t be enough to outrun Creed.  He needs to do this as fast he possibly can, and even then it probably won’t be fast enough.

But he’s going to do it.  He’s going to do it if it’s the last fucking thing he does, because Tony Stark _does not give up_.

The ship rocks slightly.

“He’s going to scratch my baby!” Wade whines, taking complete control of flight as Tony pours himself completely into the communications screen.

“If he’s going to board us, we need weapons,” Charles says, eerily calm.

“There’s a cabinet by the couch, princess,” Wade says vaguely, busy flying.

The ship rocks, this time more precariously.  They’re being fired upon.  Tony grits his teeth and moves his fingers even faster.  He has to access the right waves to get the message to go as far as he can get it to.  This is a civilian ship with no weapons; the signal boosters are powerful, and their chances of getting in contact with someone are good. Tony can temper with them, extend their reach even more.  He just needs another minute, just one more minute.

“I don’t like this dude,” Wade complains, making the ship do some sort of dizzying weaving pattern—he’s a surprisingly good pilot.

Tony’s got it, he’s got it, he’s nearly there.  He authorizes the last confirmation and sends the message out just as the ship swerves dangerously, and he frowns and glances at Wade and—Wade’s unconscious, but—how—

And then nothing.

 

X

 

He jerks awake choking on a breath, and shoves at the floor to sit up, but someone is pressing down on his chest, keeping him down, and Tony panics and—

“Easy,” a soft voice said, calm, soothing, rich.  Tony tries to focus his eyes.  “Easy, you are safe, you are with friends.  You are alright.”

The world stops twirling and his eyes focus.

He’s lying stretched out on the floor of Wade’s ship, and someone is crouching down above him who is not Wade and is not Charles.

It’s Thor Odinson, co-vice-president of Asgard Corporation.

“You got my message,” Tony says thickly, still befuddled, confused.

“I did,” Thor confirms shifting to slide an arm under Tony’s back to help him sit up slowly.  For all his impressive size and the strength of his arms, he is gentle, kind.

“What,” Tony rubs his forehead.  “What happened?”

“Your ship was coasting,” answers Odinson, pressing a bottle of water to Tony’s shaking hands.  “I boarded it when my third hailing attempt was met with an automatic ‘unavailable’ signal.”

“Coasting,” repeats Tony dully.

“Drink,” says Thor.

Tony lifts his head, regrets it and sways.  Thor steadies him with a big hand on his shoulder and insists he drink.  Tony fumbles with the cap.  Thor takes it from his hands and opens it for him.  Tony takes it but doesn’t drink.

Tony lifts his head again, this time slowly, and looks around.  Wade is on the floor nearby, stretched out on his back with his head pillowed on a cushion.

Charles is.

Gone.

“What _happened_?” he asks again, strained, stomach sinking.

“Drink,” Thor says.  “And I’ll tell you.”

Tony takes a shaky sip of water and feels somewhat better for it, so he takes another sip and then starts drinking in earnest.  He doesn’t know why he’s so thirsty—and then he knows.

“He stunned me,” he murmurs, slack-jawed.

Thor sits down on the floor in front of him, blue eyes kind.  “Yes.  I found you both stunned on your chairs.  I watched the security footage.  Your friend stunned first the pilot, then you, and then had a communication with the pursuing ship, by the end of which he decided to give himself up.”

Tony drops his head to his right hand and bites back a sob.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Stark.”

Charles is gone.  He gave himself up to Creed, like a lamb to slaughter, and he probably bargained for Tony to be left alone, too, because he’s that kind of imbecilic little kind-hearted puppy.  He gave himself up to protect Tony and Wade when he knows what’s going to happen to him in the hands of the Nyrulians.  He _knows_.

He drops the water bottle and fists his hair, curling forward over his legs.  His chest hurts so much it feels like his ribs are collapsing and crushing his lungs.  In the confined, compact space his heart struggles to beat and feels like it fails.

“What are we going to do?” Thor asks, and Tony stills.  Slowly, he lifts his head, eyes vacant and dark.

“What?”

Thor repeats the question.  There’s steel behind the velvet of his eyes, and his mouth is a determined line.  Tony stares at him, uncomprehending.  His eyes drift around vaguely, searching for something anything.  Thor’s voice snaps his attention back to him.

“You called me and I’m here,” he says calmly.  “I have resources and you have a plan.  What do you need me to do?”

“I don’t,” Tony spreads his hands.  “Charles is gone and I don’t—plan, I can’t even—think—”

Thor leans forward and lays a warm hand on Tony’s chilled arm.

“Calm down and think.  Your friend’s been abducted.  I’m here to help you.  Only tell me what you need from me and I will do it.”

Tony’s mind screeches to a halt.  A click and a flare.  The blinding light of an idea.

“Can you track that ship?”

“Yes,” Thor answers, cautious.  “But I don’t have the firepower to take it down.”

“No,” Tony says slowly, facts and data and speculation swirling together into something that is starting, maybe, to make sense.  “No, I tried to save him and I failed.  It’s someone else’s turn.  We got a different mission.  But track the ship, the ion trail, get me all the info you can, and we’re going to send it in a nice little package—and I know to whom exactly.”

Thor stands with the fluid, strong grace of a man with purpose, and pulls Tony to his feet.

“And us?”

“We,” says Tony, mind racing, “are going to set shit on _fire_.”


	10. This is for you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait!

“Well?  What did _you_ say for question eight?”

“I don’t recall which one that was.”

“Honestly, Erik, we just took the exam!  You can’t tell me you’ve already forgotten about it.”

“Hm.”

“Alright fine, question eight was the one where you’re caught in a no-win situation.  Ring any bells yet?  You can either save your crew or—”

“I remember now.”

“But what did you say?”

“Honestly, Charles, I don’t think that should have to be a question at all.”

 

X

 

Paladin Steve Rogers walks down the gangway of the borrowed shuttle at a steady pace, arms held limp at his sides.  The weapon holster at his hip is empty.

Paladin Nicholas Fury waits at the bottom of the gangway, standing straight-backed and motionless with his arms folded behind his back as he watches Steve descend, his expression entirely unreadable.  He doesn’t blink even as Steve comes to a stop in front of him.

Steve snaps to attention, eyes straight ahead, looking somewhere past Fury’s left shoulder.  “Paladin Steve Rogers, reporting to the TEF Ionstar to surrender myself for arrest.  Sir.”

Fury is silent for one long moment.  “Where is Prince Xavier?”

“Captured by a hostile, sir.”

“Where is War-Prince Lehnsherr?”

“I don’t think that should be a question, sir.”

“Mother _fucker_.”

 

X

 

Charles digs his fingers into the soft fabric of the couch, gripping it tightly as the ship gives another wild lurch.

They’re not going to make it.  They don’t have enough speed, they don’t have enough power, and in the face of Creed’s souped-up monstrosity, it will only spell death for all of them.  Creed is only toying with them for now, letting them run—if he really wanted to shoot them out of the sky, Charles imagines that they’d be smoking piles of ash by now.

There’s only so long, though, before Creed gets bored.

Charles’ legs hurt, and he is tired.

Tony is doing what are probably amazing things at Wade’s second console, his fingers moving so quickly across the screen that Charles isn’t even attempting to try and follow.  Tony doesn’t deserve this.  Tony hasn’t given up, has carried Charles this far, and yet, Charles thinks, he shouldn’t have had to in the first place.

The ship rocks slightly.

“He’s going to scratch my baby!” Wade whines, and Charles’ gaze shifts to the bounty hunter.  Wade has already saved his life, and this is how Charles repays him?  By dragging him down into this situation where they’re two minutes from being shot down out of the sky?

It takes him all of a second to make his decision, a strange sort of dead calm settling over him.

“If he’s going to board us, we need weapons.”

“There’s a cabinet by the couch, princess,” Wade shoots back over his shoulder vaguely.

Charles sees it, and ignoring the quip about his rank—it doesn’t matter, anyway, he’s lost that too—he reaches for it, extending his whole upper body and avoiding moving his legs as much as possible as he strains, pulling open the drawer from his awkward angle and feeling around inside until his fingers close around the handle of a phaser.

That alone has drained him of far more energy that it should have, but Charles grits his teeth as he straightens again, trying not to pant.  He needs Wade and Tony focused completely on their screens; they don’t need to worry about him right now.

They won’t have to worry about him ever again, actually.

“I don’t like this dude,” Wade complains as the ship gives another series of wild lurches as the bounty hunter weaves his ship in and out of plasma blasts.

Charles keeps his grip on the couch, lifting the phaser up, aiming at Wade first.  His hand is shaking slightly, and he can’t tell if it’s because his body as a whole is about ready to give out or if it’s just because he’s deeply, deeply terrified by what he’s about to do, so he forces himself to take a deep breath as he spins the dial on the phaser over to stun.

“Easy,” Erik had told him, what seems like a lifetime ago, back on the Oh-Bee when they’d been on their way to Fury’s debriefing.

Charles can do easy.  He can do that.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, and of course they don’t hear him.

He pulls the trigger.

Despite his shaky aim the bolt hits Wade and the bounty hunter collapses instantly, out like a light.  His loss over the controls makes the ship give a hard swerve and Charles is nearly thrown off the couch entirely, scrabbling to hold on.  He looks up again in time to see Tony looking over at Wade, shock registering on his face, so Charles quickly dispatches him as well, forcing himself to watch as his friend hits the deck, out cold.

Charles pushes himself up off the couch, not even bothering to attempt to mask the high noise of pain that automatically comes out of his mouth when both of his legs protest the movement.  He uses his weight to fall forward against the console, squeezing between Tony and Wade, and leans forward as much as he can while still keeping his grip on the phaser.

He needs to work quickly, before Creed shoots at them again now that they’re no longer actively dodging, so Charles leans over across Wade and reaches for the controls.  He eases the ship into a straight flight path, high enough as to where it hopefully won’t run into anything, and then engages the autopilot to keep it steady.

When he straightens again, he takes another moment to breathe, swallowing down a pained sob, and then he hails Creed.

“Well, well, sweetheart,” Victor says, leering out at him from the screen, “now what’s this about?”

“I have a proposition for you.” Charles says.  Easy.  Easy.

Victor full-out laughs at him, but then answers, “I’m listening, dollface.”

“I’ll surrender myself to you peacefully,” Charles says, “if you let Tony and Deadpool go.  Alive.”

“No can do, baby.”  Victor smirks at him.  “Though it sure is cute how you think you have any kind of options here.”

“Take it or leave it, Creed,” Charles says flatly, and then he lifts the phaser up to where the bounty hunter can see it, “or you don’t get me at all.”  He puts the barrel directly under his chin, and spins the dial back around to ten.

It’s a little overkill—usually a ten on these things is powerful enough to punch through ten meters of concrete—but it’s nice to see that Victor gets the intended message, as he’s gone very still.

“You know just as well as I do that the Nyrulians want me more than they want Tony,” Charles says into the silence, “so it would be in your best interest to accept my offer.”

Victor spits to one side.  “For a Starfleet guy, you sure ain’t afraid to play dirty.”

Charles smiles painfully.  “Starfleet is where I learned to play dirty, Mr. Creed.”

Victor laughs at that, long and loud.  Charles has a feeling he’s somehow just impressed the bounty hunter, though for what good that will do him is a bit beyond him.  Victor bares his teeth in a grin.  “Say I play it your way.”

“Then I will beam myself onto your ship, and keep a hold on my phaser until you exit this planet’s atmosphere and make the jump to hyperspace.  If you shoot at this ship, I will pull the trigger on myself.  Otherwise, you make the jump and I’ll hand the phaser over and I’m all yours.”

The bounty hunter pretends to consider him, but Charles knows that he’s already won—he can see the pure greed in Victor’s gaze as Victor sizes him up through the screen.

“Deal,” he says, and Charles tries not to equate him to the devil.  It’s not working.  “You have one minute to get your pretty little ass on my ship.”  He cuts the transmission and is gone.

Charles lets the phaser drop from his chin, closing his eyes and swallowing.  If this were some kind of movie he’d march bravely over to the transporter pad and beam himself onto Victor’s ship without showing an ounce of fear, but in reality he is terrified of what he’s done, where he knows he’ll be taken, and what he knows will happen to him upon arrival.  His hands are shaking and his breath is coming out in short, quick gasps and for a moment he can’t move, paralyzed by panic.

And then he glances down, and sees Wade, sees Tony; the engineer’s face still screwed up in an expression of shock even with his eyes closed, and Charles clenches his hands tightly, forcing himself to breathe, because he is doing this all for them.  Wade hardly deserves death, and Tony has always deserved so much more—and for them, he can do this.  Not without fear, but he can do it.

Sometimes things don’t require courage.  They just have to be done.

“Don’t hate yourself for this,” Charles says quietly to Tony, even though he knows his words are falling on deaf ears, “it’s not your fault.  You didn’t do this.  I did.  It’s _not your fault_.”

Tony can’t hear him but even if he could Charles knows his words are useless.  Tony has enough self-hatred to repower a hundred dying stars and Charles feels helplessly guilty because he knows that this will only make that self-hatred increase—Tony will think that he has failed, that he has failed Charles, and that he has failed all of their friends, especially Steve, because if there’s one person whose regard Tony still holds himself accountable to it’s Steve’s, or at least what he imagines Steve’s regard to be.

Charles wishes he could sit Tony down and explain that Steve never wanted him to be anything other than himself.  Charles wishes he could do a lot of things, actually.  But he’s out of time.

“I’m so sorry,” he says again, voice trembling, “but this is for you.  This is for you.”

Gripping the phaser tightly, Charles maneuvers himself around and carefully gets his legs untangled from the sprawl of limbs that he’s reduced Tony and Wade to.  His leg that has been injured since his foray onto the Nyrulian ship with Wade—funny how that seems like a lifetime ago, even now—is barely operable, every motion sending lances of pain through his knee that make him grit his teeth to keep from whimpering.  His other leg, newly chewed from their sad attempt at escape across the planet below, is sore beyond reasoning.  It _hurts_.  _He_ hurts, and oh god, he can’t do this.

“I've calculated your chance of survival,” comes a morose, computerized voice, “but I don't think you'll like it.”

Charles chokes out a laugh that actually sounds nothing at all like a laugh.  “Not very high, is it, Marvin?” he asks as he gets himself around the couch and across the tiny bridge of Wade’s ship towards the door, which opens for him.  “Um.  I think that door just sighed.”

“Ghastly, isn’t it?” Marvin answers dejectedly.  “All the doors on this spaceship have been programmed to have a cheery and sunny disposition.”

Charles wonders if the ship came like this or if Wade sat down one day and did it himself.  Either way it’s mildly terrifying, but it also serves as a good enough distraction to keep his mind off other things as he makes his way haltingly down the corridor of the ship, towards the transporter pads.  It no longer matters whether he can do this or not.  He _has_ to do it.  So he _will_.

“This will all end in tears,” Marvin tells him as he stumbles up to the control panel and inputs the coordinates for Victor’s ship.

Charles huffs out another not-laugh.  He feels like he’s on the edge of hysteria.  “Blood, too, I imagine.”  His.  Lots of it.  His hands are shaking again, and he nearly misses a digit.  “Listen, Marvin.  Make sure the ship doesn’t crash while they’re out.”  He swallows.  “Take care of them.  For me.”

Maybe Marvin answers.  Maybe he doesn’t.  Charles doesn’t give him enough time to either way, keying in his confirmation command and slamming down on the release button, and the Heart of Gold swirls out of sight in a bright flash of light.

It’s probably better that way.

 

X

 

“No,” Scott hisses, “you’re going to get your ass in a shuttle and jet off to wherever the fuck you want, _anywhere_ you want, I couldn’t fucking care less, but you are going to be anywhere but _here_.”

“Aw,” Alex says with a sneer, holding his ground, “you actually care about me.”

“ _No_ ,” Scott denies vehemently, and Logan rolls his eyes because Jesus Christ.  “I just think you’re too fucking stupid to realize that we’re—”

“With all due respect, sir,” Darwin says calmly, holding his hands up in a placating manner, “we’ve known what we were in for ever since we signed up for the Academy.  War-Prince Lehnsherr gave us a choice and ample enough time, given the situation, to make a decision.  And we’ve decided to stay.  The least you can do is respect that.”

“And say _thank you_ , maybe, asshole,” Alex adds, and Darwin elbows him in the side.

“It’s our choice, sir,” Darwin says, earnest but calm, “it’s our call.”

“Don’t you get it,” Scott snarls, “this is—you—”

“We’re going to fucking die.” Logan pulls his cigar out of his mouth at last, breaking his silence.  He can see where Scott’s coming from on this, sort of, because as much as Scott likes to pretend otherwise Alex _is_ his fucking baby brother, but Logan also knows that Scott still thinks of him as such—emphasis on the _baby_ —and the kid is too grown up now for that shit.  “We are going to fly so deep into enemy territory that we are probably not going to make it out.  In fact, we might not even make it to our fucking destination.”

All three of them are silent, looking at him.

Good.  “If we’re not blown to pieces, we’ll sure as hell be taken hostage,” Logan continues flatly, “much like our esteemed Deputy Commander.  And they ain’t gonna hold us for a tea party, I can tell you that.  So.”  He bites on the end of his cigar again, assessing the two plebes.  “You boys prepared to die for a Prince whose command you’ve been under for less than a week?”

“We would like to rescue Prince Xavier,” Darwin acknowledges, “but it’s not just about—”

“Look, dipshit,” Alex breaks in, glaring at him, “I don’t know the Deputy.  But he’s still _our_ Deputy and we’re not leaving him to die.  And I’m not going to fucking turn tail and run.  People who abandon their friends are worse than trash.  So fuck _you_ —” he jabs a finger into Scott’s chest, “—for trying to make me leave.  I’m not going _anywhere_.”

Beside him, Darwin closes his mouth and nods.

Logan blows out a puff of smoke.  He’s smoking on the Heartsteel, so sue him.  He’s practically not in Starfleet anymore anyway.  “They’re ready,” he says to Scott, who still looks pissed off but underneath that Logan can tell that he’s already accepted the inevitable, “so I’ll see you on the bridge, asshole.”

He turns and walks away, leaving them to bicker about it anyway, but at least he knows one thing for certain.  From War-Prince down to plebe, the crew of this ship is reinforced with an iron will that not even the Nyrulians will be able to shake.

Starfleet’s loss.

“You’d better not fucking give up, Charles,” he says aloud even though it makes him feel slightly stupid, but the sentiment is just too strong to keep silent.  “We’re coming for you.  So you’d better have the fucking decency to hold on for a little bit.  For us.”

Because like Scott, Logan had also seen the shift in Charles’ eyes, displayed so prominently on the main screen as the Deputy had been staring down the barrel of a plasma rifle, just moments before everything had gone straight to hell.  He’d seen the shift in Charles’ eyes, and he knows that they have two very different races to win.

They need to get to Charles before the Nyrulians destroy him, and before Charles destroys himself.

 

X

 

The first thing he sees is Victor’s uneven teeth in a wide grin.  “Welcome back, dollface.  What took you so long?”  The bounty hunter stands in the transporter bay of his own ship to greet him in person.  He’s holding his rifle phaser idly down at his side in one hand, not quite pointing it at Charles.  Yet.

Charles lifts his own phaser, keeping the barrel under his chin.  “Nothing.”

Victor reaches for him.  “Hand it over, sweetheart.”

“No.” Charles says firmly.  His voice doesn’t shake.  Neither do his hands.  It’s like having an out-of-body experience.  Now that he’s here and there’s no turning back, it’s like all of his previous terror has been put on ice—because what else can he do, at this point?  Nothing.  He doesn’t have to muster up resolve anymore.  He’s already here.  The end of the line.  “I’m not handing it over until I see proof that we’re well away from Tony and Deadpool.  Make the jump to hyperspace, or I pull the trigger.”

There is a very long, still moment during which they both stare at each other in heavy silence.  It goes long enough that Charles begins to fear that Victor really is going to wait for him to shoot himself, but then the bounty hunter laughs, dropping his hand.

“Alright, alright,” he says, “let me get out of the atmosphere first, Xavier.  No need to splatter your pretty little brains across my deck.”  The door behind him slides open.  “Shall we?”

“After you,” Charles says stiffly, and tries not to shudder when Victor smirks.

He follows behind Victor through a shoddy hallway that is much like the one from before, exposed pipes hanging low over their heads.  He wonders how Victor was able to patch his ship up so quickly, but soon abandons the train of thought in favor of concentrating on not letting a single sound of pain—and therefore sign of weakness—escape his lips as he walks.  He can’t hide his limp entirely, but at least Victor already knew he was hurt that much.  Charles sees no reason into allowing his deterioration to show.

They’ll all find out soon enough, at any rate.

He squeezes the grip on the phaser tightly and bites down on the inside of his cheek.

A pair of double doors slide open, the mechanics harsh and grating, and they emerge onto the bridge.  Like Wade’s ship, the bridge is small but functional, but distinctly lacks a couch.  Everything down to the panels in the floor from the pilot and copilot seats have a worn look to them, as if Victor has built everything from scratch using secondhand parts.  Charles would hazard a guess that this is not far from the truth.

Through the display of the main screen, Charles can see that they’re still hovering right above and behind the Heart of Gold, following Wade’s strange ship as it cruises along.  It’s also hard to miss how Victor has everything in his arsenal locked onto the round ship, ready to open fire.

Charles hovers in the doorway while Victor tweaks a few controls, powering down his weapons and switching tracks to piloting the ship.  There’s a low whirring sound and the bounty hunter’s ship picks up speed and changes angle, shooting upwards through the atmosphere.  In a matter of seconds they’re high above the little moon, Wade’s ship gone entirely from view.

“Better?” Victor shoots him a mocking grin.

“Hyperspace, Mr. Creed.” Charles says pointedly.  He’s not going to breathe easy until they’re billions of light years from this place, and even then it’s still not going to be enough.

“Relax, I’m getting there,” he says with a chuckle, and then turns his head again to leer at Charles, “and by all means, call me Victor.”

Charles stands very, very still and does not shudder until the bounty hunter has turned back to his controls.

The humming is louder as the view rotates around away from the moon and out towards the galaxy beyond, jetting out of the last few remnants of the moon’s gravitational pull.  Victor has no AI mainframe to guide the ship, only a computer that takes basic commands and confirms several quick checkups before the view outside goes blank and white as they accelerate to Maximum Burn.

He’s done it.  Wade and Tony are safe.  Charles would breathe a sigh of relief but Victor is turning away from his control panel now.  He takes a couple steps towards Charles, one hand held out.

“I ain’t gonna ask again, dollface.”  His voice is almost soft, but does nothing to hide the pent-up violence that his body is brimming with, nor does it subtract from the madness lurking within the depths of his eyes.  Charles has stepped onto the ship of a psychopath, and is now about to hand him the only defense he has left.

For a moment they stare at each other.  Charles calculates how likely he would be able to succeed at blasting Victor into oblivion, but the bounty hunter still holds his rifle—still low at his side, but now conspicuously aimed right for Charles’ stomach.  Victor watches him, something like a dare in his eyes.  He _wants_ Charles to try it.

Charles spins the dial on his phaser around to stun, more of an automatic motion than anything else, and then slowly hands the weapon over.

Victor takes it from him civilly enough, weighing it in his hand for a moment with idle disinterest as he props his rifle up against the wall, and then Charles only has half a second to flinch as the bounty hunter swings the butt of the gun up across his face, strong enough to knock him off his feet.  Charles hits the deck, too shocked to cry out, his head reeling as he tastes the distinct bitter tang of blood.  He gives an aborted gasp of breath.  The burst of pain from his legs lances up his spine to fuse with the one from his face; together they white-out sound for a long, dizzying moment, sickening static buzzing in Charles’ ears.  He’s helpless, disoriented, and quickly shutting down.  He has to claw through the encroaching darkness back to lucidity, and even then he’s left dazed on the floor, weak as a newborn foal.  He won’t be getting up, not on his own.

There’s a clatter as Victor tosses the phaser aside, letting it skid across the floor haphazardly, and then Charles feels two giant fists dig into the tattered remains of his jacket.  The bounty hunter hauls him up to his feet as if he weighs nothing, paying no mind as to how Charles can barely control where his legs fall, and brings him up so that they’re eye-to-eye.

“Got a little something to show you, Xavier,” Victor breathes into his face, and Charles fights down the dizzying urge to gag, “come with me.”

He gives Charles little option anyway, half-carrying, half-dragging him back off the bridge and down the hall.  He practically throws Charles into the elevator and Charles doesn’t even try to keep from collapsing, smashed up against the wall and balancing precariously on his good—and it’s a stretch, calling it that—knee to keep his weight off his other.  His head smacks the wall with a thud.  There’s a ringing in Charles’ ears that was intermittent and now won’t go away.  The elevator begins to descend and Charles presses his forehead against the wall as he fights not to make a sound.  His breath comes in harsh, painful gasps, bursts of air like serrated blades.

“I was going to introduce you last time,” Victor continues, as if he’s unaware that Charles is barely hanging onto consciousness, “but you and Stark had to get cute and go on your little detour.”

The elevator comes to a halt and Charles is yanked back up to his feet.  He’s dimly aware of being dragged over a mess of pipes and then they’re back in the same storage hold he’d woken up in only a few short hours ago with Tony.  Victor tows him over to the container that sits conspicuously in the center of the hold and then slams him up against it chest-first, one large hand splayed across his back to hold him in place.

“Still with me, sweetheart?”  Victor presses down.

“Yes,” Charles manages to grit out when it becomes clear that Victor is expecting an actual answer.  His head is reeling and god everything hurts so much and this is barely even the _beginning_.

Suddenly the container he’s being crushed against gives a low rumble and he instinctively tries to flinch away as the entire thing shakes with a low, guttural snarl vibrating from within.  He remembers that the same thing had happened the last time he’d been here, making Tony jump, only this time Charles is close enough to hear the snarl trail off into a hiss that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, followed by the sound of many, many legs scrabbling against the metal.

“You’re a smart guy, Xavier.” Victor says conversationally, still holding Charles captive against the container.  Every single instinct in Charles’ body is screaming at him to get away, but all he can do is remain frozen in horror.  “You familiar at all with Taxxons?”

Giant, armored centipede-like bodies comes to mind, and Charles gives a shaky intake of breath.  He’d studied them once, a long time ago in one of his Xenobiology courses.  Even now he can still clearly picture their four, bulbous red eyes resting on stalks, surrounding a large, always-open round mouth ringed with razor-sharp teeth.  He’s never seen a live one before, but he knows enough to never have wanted to.

“Ah,” Victor says, and Charles can hear the smirk in his voice, “so you are.”

He kicks the side of the container with one booted foot, and Charles tries to recoil when the Taxxon inside throws itself against the wall with a loud bang, snarling furiously.  Victor laughs, holding him down in place and Charles tries not to think about how there is only one thin sheet of metal separating him from one of the nastiest species in the galaxy and quite possibly the universe.

“There’s actually two of ’em in there,” Victor says when the hisses have subsided a little.  “I’ve got a divider set up on the inside because I don’t want ’em to get bored and eat each other.  I keep ’em mean, Xavier.  I keep ’em _hungry_.”

Charles can hear many claws scratching lightly at the metal again, right where he’s being pressed up against the side of the container.  He resists the urge to hold his breath.  Taxxons are best known for their all-consuming, endless, insatiable hunger—they’re walking bottomless pits that make no differentiations between anything that gets in the way of their nightmarish mouths.

Victor leans down, speaking right into his ear.  “They can smell your blood, Xavier.  They can smell you’re hurt.  You’re weak, easy prey.  You get where I’m going with this?”

“Yes,” Charles says, tensed and waiting.

“My employers want you alive,” Victor murmurs, “but they didn’t specify how many pieces you could be in.  Seems to me that you don’t need arms or legs to talk, hm?”

“No,” Charles blurts before he can stop himself.  God, he’s _begging_.  If Erik could see him now—but he can’t.  He won’t.  “Please, no—”

Victor chuckles, the sound low and mirthless.  He straightens, keeping his hand pressed against Charles’ spine.  “You only get one warning, sweetheart, and here it is now: try anything _cute_ —” he slams a fist into the container next to Charles’ head, “—again and I’ll feed you bit by bit to my worms here.  You think that leg hurts now, but you ain’t felt _nothing_ till you have two Taxxons eating you alive.  Are we clear?”

Charles flinches when the Taxxon inside rams itself against the metal, his entire body vibrating with the impact.  He thinks he feels the wall dent.  It takes him a couple tries, but he finally manages to reply, his voice thin and shaky, “Crystal.”

 

X

 

The bridge is empty.

It’s nearly a relief.

It’s not chance, though, that has led him to be the only one standing in front of the main screen, looking out into the stars as the Heartsteel makes her way through the galaxy.  He’d ordered everyone out nearly as soon as he’d set foot on the bridge, and they’d gone without protest.  He’s glad.  He needs time.  He has no time, but at he can pretend, at least, for the moment.

Raven flickers into view beside him quietly.  “Sir.”

Erik keeps his gaze outwards, and doesn’t acknowledge her at first.  His whole body aches, deep and relentless, but not even McCoy had stopped him when he’d walked out of the medical bay some time ago.  Erik hadn’t even had to pull rank.  The doctor had stepped aside, because he knew.

Erik isn’t angry.  He’s beyond that now, gone past that threshold and into something else entirely.

He’d been angry when his parents had died; he’d been angry a few days ago when Cain Marko had hit Charles in the back of the head and shoved him into an E-pod straight for a Nyrulian ship.  He’s familiar with anger. 

This, this is _rage_ , pure and focused, hotter than a star and yet colder than space.  It runs through him like electricity, arcing along his veins.  He holds himself straight and stiff, tense with the effort of not allowing a single facet of neither pain nor rage show.  That’s not something he can allow himself anymore.  There’s only one thing he can fall back on now, and it’s the one thing he’s familiar with.  Control.

He’s in control.  His crew has opted to stay with him until the end, so the least he can do is be a commander worthy of such a following.  And he will.  He’s in control.  Easy.  Easy.

“Is it done?”

“Yes sir.”

Erik breathes, in and out.  “Thank you, Raven.”

“Of course, sir.”  Her projection’s arms are folded neatly behind her back. 

Together they stand, side-by-side, tiny and solidary in the emptiness of space stretched out before them.  All the things that occupy it, from stars to planets to the life that teems amongst them, are made of the same basic atoms.  They all come from supernovae.  The Nyrulians.  Him.  Charles.

“I looked him in the eye,” Erik says distantly, lips barely moving.  “I looked him in the eye and told him that it was going to be alright.”

Raven doesn’t answer at first.  Erik half-expects her not to at all.  But then she shifts her projection’s stance, bringing her hands down so that they’re clasped in front of her, bending her head and closing her eyes as she gives a small, private smile.  It is not a particularly friendly smile.  “You will make it alright, sir.”

“Yes,” Erik says, “I will.”

 

X

 

“You realize we’re doing exactly what the fuck they want us to, right?” Scott says as a preamble, practically kicking his way onto the bridge.  He’s still fucking pissed off about Alex—for reasons he’s not going to admit, goddamn it—so he’s pretty much ready for a fight.

Logan’s at his station and barely glances up, even when Scott throws himself down into his chair.  “Getting scared, Summers?”

“Fuck you, _no_ ,” Scott snaps.  They’re the only two on the bridge, so he’s as loud as he goddamn wants to be.  “All I’m saying is that the whole fucking _point_ here is to not let the Mystique tech fall into Nyrulian hands, but here we are, about to fucking hand-deliver it or some shit by flying right up to their goddamn front door—”

“The Nyrulians will not get the tech.”  Jesus _Christ_ , Erik’s here too, and he nearly gives Scott a heart attack.  The War-Prince is standing down in front of the main screen, his back to the bridge.  “Raven and I have already taken care of it.”

Scott exchanges a look with Logan.  He’s not sure what the fuck that’s supposed to mean, but if Erik says it’s done, it’s done.  Even though Scott entirely fails to see how that hell that’s even plausible.  “Uh.  So what’s the plan.  Sir.”

Erik turns to face them.  His face is as blank and impassive as ever, which is really fucking annoying because Scott knows exactly how much he’s hurting, physically and otherwise.  Back to business as usual, then. Then again, Scott might prefer this regular version of Unreadable Dickhead than an Erik who’s gone to pieces.

He suddenly has to resist the urge to shudder.

“We’re headed for Nyrulian space now,” Logan says at Erik’s nod, pulling up a map for Scott to look at.  Scott barely glances at it.  “As soon as we hit the borderline, we’ll go Mystique Mode.  It worked last time, and I highly doubt those fuckers will be expecting us so soon, if at all.  As far as they’ll know when Creed, uh, drops Charles off—” they both wince reflexively but Erik remains stoic, so Logan hurries to continue, “—he’ll be reporting that Erik is dead.  So.”

“Fuck,” Scott says, which seems entirely appropriate, fuck you very much.  “But we have no idea where the fuck Creed’s dropping Charles in the first place.  We can get into Nyrulian territory, sure, but we have no fucking clue as to whether or not we’re even on the right side of the damn galaxy.”

Erik folds his arms tightly.  Normally this is a sign of his usual standoffish surliness, but Scott has a feeling that in this case it’s more likely that he’s trying to keep his goddamn insides in place.  It’s probably killing McCoy to have let the War-Prince out of his sight so soon, but the CMO probably knew better than to even think of trying to stop him.

“The first Nyrulian ship we come across, we capture,” Erik says, his voice tight and controlled, and his expression booking no mercy.  “Charles was…” Here he trails off, and Scott wonders if he should be shitting himself at this point or something.  “Charles was told by Marko that the Nyrulians have been expecting him.  Now that they have him—” he speaks through clenched teeth and Scott is sort of leaning back in case of explosion, “—I’m sure they’ll be talking about it.”

“Jack their communications, then,” Logan says, and Erik inclines his head in a nod.

“It’s not solid,” he says, weary now, and holy shit if he’s actually allowing _that_ to show then Scott thinks they’re screwed, “but it’s a start.”

“Incoming transmission, sir,” Raven says suddenly, in the absence of Cassidy, “source indicates it streams from the TES Mjölnir.”

All of them look at each other blankly.

“Who the fuck,” Scott says incredulously, “is _that_.”

 

X

 

“I have bad news,” is the first thing Tony says as soon as the Heartsteel opens the comm channel and he’s got a nice big picture of Lehnsherr, Scott, and Logan on his screen staring at him with various degrees of disbelief, because he can’t be bothered with pleasantries and anyway Lehnsherr is looking at him like a _hi, how you doin’_ might award Tony a phaser beam to the genitals.

“How the fuck are you _alive_?” Scott demands.

“How can it fucking get worse?” Logan growls.

“Oh, you naïve little girl,” Tony says flatly.  “The short version of the story is Charles and I escaped Creed, crash-landed on a planet where we ran into Deadpool—”

“Just Charles’ luck,” mutters Scott.

“—and then while effecting a glorious and dashing escape, Victor found us and Charles gave himself up, because he’s an altruistic dickhead.”  Yeah.  Still not over that one.  Thor had shown him the video feed of Charles’ last few minutes aboard the Heart of Gold and Tony wants to—something.  Goddamn _Charles_.

He stops himself right there.  He’s already decided not to think about it.

“You let him go?” Lehnsherr asks calmly.  Tony fights back a shiver.  Lehnsherr might as well be a bot, for all the expression on his face.

Apparently, Lehnsherr has at some point sustained brain damage.  That must be why his face is stuck in ‘scowl level 15’ forever.

“Did I let him go?” he parrots mockingly.  “No.  No, I did not _let him go_.  He stunned us, left us drifting in space.  Point-break here—” Tony twists around to catch the hem of Thor’s red shirt and drags him closer so he’s in front of the viewscreen, “—picked up our distress signal and found us.”

“I’m Thor Odinson, co-vice-president of Asgard Industries,” Thor says, leaning forward to rest his hand on the console by Tony’s hand.  Thor is a touchy-feely sort of guy, not that Tony minds.  It’s just that it can get a little distracting with someone whose biceps are about the size of your head.  Tony isn’t ashamed to admit he likes bulky guys.

“I’m glad to see you’re still alive,” Tony continues, voice falling flat as he and Lehnsherr stare at each other through the screens, “because Charles is under the impression that you’re—well.  Not.”

There is a split second where Lehnsherr’s expression fractures and Tony has to glance away, preoccupying himself with a star map to avoid even catching Scott’s or Logan’s expressions.  Tony doesn’t have to illuminate anything more on that.  They don’t need him to tell them what effect that’s having on Charles’ mindset.

It was probably wise of him not to include the Heart of Gold’s security footage in the data he has ready for them.  They don’t need to see Charles’ last few moments alone on Wade’s bridge, seconds away from a panic attack and already in massive amounts of pain from his legs, but still managing to talk himself into going through with his plan.

Tony squeezes his eyes shut for a moment.  Some plan, Charles.

“I also have good news though,” Tony says, opening his eyes again, fingers flying over the console as he begins the data relay.  Time to move on.  “Creed’s ship is a flying brick, and I can identify the ion trail form his engines, which is pretty much a trail for you lot to follow.  He’s in hyperspace, so you better get a move on.  Sending it over now.”

“Where’s Deadpool?” asks Logan, frowning. “That’s not his ship.”

“My friend the Pool of Dead,” says Tony diplomatically, “is somewhat on the overdramatic side, in case you haven’t noticed.  He’s throwing an epic Sulk, note the capitalized _S_.  Said he’d find me when he could ‘knit back his heart,’ and yes I am quoting that word for word, thank you.”

“You’re rather calm for someone whose best friend just threw himself into danger for them,” says Lehnsherr, voice smooth and even.  He’s recomposed himself for the time being, expressionless.

Logan and Scott exchange a look, and Tony knows they’re not going to bother to try and appease Lehnsherr.  Tony uses humor and sarcasm as a defense, and everyone who’s spent five minutes in conversation with him knows that full well.  The truth is Tony has been broken up inside so many times that surviving another fracture is just part of his everyday life.  He knows how to handle pain; he’s used to it.  Tony pulls through.  That’s what he _does_.

He grits his teeth.  “I didn’t see it coming, but I should have.  Charles is too fucking altruistic for his own good, and we all know that perfectly well.  I couldn’t have stopped him if I tried, so I’m not wasting time in cursing up one wall and down the other.  Got other things to do.”

“Like what?”

“Like cleaning up your own fucking ion trail,” Tony snaps.  “If I could find you, how long do you think it’ll take the Ionstar’s systems to be licking up your buttcrack?  That ship’s designed to be a space bloodhound, Lehnsherr, I should know, I helped program it.  So yeah, a little busy here.  What, I can’t even trust you to go find Charles on your own?  You need me to hold your fucking hand, too?”

Logan makes a sharp gesture with a hand, which Tony catches out of the corner of his eye.  Thor’s hand presses warningly against his back.   _Cool it_ , it says.

Lehnsherr, who’s been standing very still in front of the viewscreen, moves slowly to the side, pacing absently.  He moves like a fucking android, that man.  He doesn’t walk; he glides.

“So you propose to cover up our ion trail and keep the entire Fleet off our backs for as long as you can manage.  How long is that?”

“A week at most, so you better start moving it,” Tony rubs his hands roughly up and down his face. He’s tired and sore and sadness is eating away at him like acid, but he’s still functional.  That’s all that really matters.  “Listen, I need to talk to Steve for a minute, can you put him on?”

Lehnsherr stares at him for a solid minute.  Logan and Scott fidget and exchange looks, as if urging the other one to talk, their gestures getting increasingly brusque as they refuse each other.  Fucking children, Jesus Christ.  What kind of imbecile lets these two man a fucking starship?  Lehnsherr twists around in a bizarre sort of snake-like move, starting at the head and then lettings his shoulders follow.  He’s insanely creepy and Charles is well off his rocker, in Tony’s not-humble opinion.

Another minute goes by as Lehnsherr stares stonily at his two underlings, who still refuse to look at Tony.  A cold chill starts building up Tony’s spine, his heart beating quickly as he clenches his fingers on the edge of the console.  Thor’s fingers clench on the back of his shirt.

“Paladin Rogers,” Lehnsherr starts slowly, and turns around to look at Tony straight in the eyes, “has abandoned the Heartsteel to surrender himself to Fury.”

The chill resolves itself into a sick wash of cold all down Tony’s body, like all the blood in his veins is rushing to the cold, wriggling clot in the pit of his stomach.  It feels like a handful of worms.  A wave of nausea makes him stick back in his chair and swallow bile.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck shit buggering bloody—

“To stall,” he says numbly, looking at the screen and seeing nothing.  Just like Charles had predicted, even in his half-delirium.

“That was the hope,” Lehnsherr confirms quietly.  That might be sympathy or even compassion in his otherwise cold eyes.  His face is hard to read so it’s difficult to tell.  But Charles loves him, so there must be a heart there somewhere.

Tony’s eyes slide from the screen to the many different console viewscreens around him.  Outside cameras, star charts, quadrant analysis, ion trail detectors, engine room follow-up screens.  A small part of his mind recollects the data he looks at and processes it even as the larger part of him is stuck in _holy shit_. 

“We needed someone to convince Fury to give us free run for a while,” Logan mutters.  He looks apologetic and ashamed.  He fucking should.

“You know Steve,” Scott says helplessly.

Tony’s eyes alight in the sensors following up Creed’s ship, the  screen next to that one erasing the trails the Heartsteel leaves, the next to that one keeping an eye on Deadpool’s ship, the Mjölnir’s velocity through space, schematics, modifications and potential power outage, heat consumption, life support, usage of electrical power derived of hydrogen fuel.

It’s the end of Steve Rogers’ brilliant military career and Tony is sitting in the middle of open fucking nowhere tracking a piece of shit flying bucket and helping Starfleet’s newest rogue ship evade detection long enough to sneak into enemy territory and be well out of Fury’s long fucking reach.

Edgar and the Keflars are floating dead in space.

Tony’s eyes dip down to the touch-screen consoles beneath the pads of his fingers.  The material prevents fingertips from leaving smears on the surface, further avoiding slippery spots where fingers could make a mistake by adjusting the wrong sensor.  State-of-the-art technology he designed more than a year ago and only now is available to civilians.  It feels smooth to the skin but is really microscopically rough and anti-adherent.  It also makes it water-repellent.

He opens his mouth to say ‘I’ll keep you well hidden’ and his mind gets stuck in the knowledge that Steve wouldn’t step out of Starfleet to be with him but the moment Charles was in need he’d give himself over to Fury though he _hates_ black ops and it’s exactly the fucking same as leaving the Fleet entirely.

Irrational, unfair hatred burns through him, hot like electricity.

No one ever said Tony was a good fucking person, let alone Tony himself.

“Tony—” Scott is getting to his feet, looking uneasy and pale behind Lehnsherr’s sympathetic expression.

“Don’t worry about getting detected,” he says, cutting across Scott’s uncertain empty fucking platitudes.  His voice sounds cold and hard even to him, so God only knows what his face looks like.  Logan’s jaw clenches.  “Just worry about Charles.  This is our frequency if you need anything.  Mjölnir out.”

The screen goes dark on Logan leaping to his feet.  Tony lets his fingers fly over the console, adjusting sensors to scramble the ion trail the Heartsteel leaves behind as it sails through space.  Absently, he hacks into the Ionstar’s systems and wipes the ship out entirely.  They’ll readjust and he’ll have to touch it up, but he can deal with that, whatever.

“I am sorry, Anthony,” Thor murmurs, stepping away to give him the space Tony desperately needs.

“Yeah,” Tony says flatly.  “Me too.”

 

X

 

Charles drifts.

He’s not sure for how long, everything is hazy and at some point the static in his ears engulfs him and he passes out entirely, left where Victor dropped him in a crumpled heap on the floor of the storage hold.  It’s blissful to be asleep, his mind forced into shutdown where he can’t feel the throbbing pain of his one leg and his burning skin on the other; where he can’t feel the pounding of his head and the sharp sting of the gash he’s bound to have from getting a face-full of phaser; where he doesn’t have to feel the empty cavity that his chest has become, strung out from pain and hunger and exhaustion and a deep, all-encompassing sorrow that is slowly swallowing him alive.

When he does finally come back to full awareness, surfacing from the depths of a lake, he can’t help the automatic whimper that forces its way out past his lips at the mind-numbing _pain_ in his leg, his eyes watering even as he blinks blearily.  It takes him a few moments to work out that he’s curled on his side and then a few moments more to work up the courage to start pushing himself into a sitting position.  He bites his lower lip so hard that he tastes blood as he slowly levers himself up, carefully twisting so that he can sit without moving his legs any more than absolutely necessary.

Charles is almost there when the container beside him shakes with a loud thud, making him jump so badly that his vision whites out for a moment at the twinge his leg gives off when the motion jostles it.  He freezes, breathing harshly as he wills himself not to scream, all while the Taxxon in this portion of the container throws itself against the wall twice more, hissing furiously.  The side of the container is definitely bowing out now, the dent growing a little larger with each attack.

The pain fizzles down again to something that’s still only barely manageable but it allows Charles to get himself situated.  Using his arms he scoots himself backwards across the floor, dragging himself away and putting some distance between himself and the Taxxon container.  He ends up back by the wall he’d leaned against with Tony, gritting his teeth as he settles himself, leaned back once more.

That much alone has left him feeling drained and for a moment he tips his head back against the metal and closes his eyes dizzily.  He feels worn and run-down, exhaustion clinging to his very bones and weighing on him like lead.  He wishes that he could just slip back down into blank unconsciousness, but he’s reached the point where he is beyond sleep, the constant pain searing along his nerve endings pushing any hopes of respite far out of reach.

Charles swallows and tips his head back down.  Somehow Tony’s makeshift brace is still tied to his bad leg, the branch thin but sturdy; for all the good it does him.  He’s almost able to choke out a laugh—leave it to Tony to do anything to keep his hands busy—but the sound dies in his throat, breath hitching.  He’s hungry, terribly thirsty too, but those sensations are both vague and distant.  He doesn’t have any room left in his body to feel anything besides the pain that bleeds through him in waves, a relentless tide that is whittling him away little by little.

He can’t take much more of this.  He’s trembling, tiny tremors that start in his hands and run all the way up his arms to his shoulders and then torso.  His teeth chatter painfully but when he tries to clench his jaw it aches too badly, so he gives it up. He just hopes he won’t bite his tongue.

He’s already been pushed to the brink and Victor hasn’t even gotten him to the Nyrulians yet.

At least it will all be over soon enough.

There’s a loud thud from across the room and Charles looks up in time to watch the wall of the container bend outward even more.  _That can’t be good_ , he thinks dimly.  The monster has probably been throwing itself against the wall for however long he was unconscious for, driven by endless hunger and trying in vain to get at him where he’d been laying just out of reach.  The Taxxon slams into the wall again and Charles can feel the floor shake even from where he sits now.

Charles closes his eyes again.  At least it’s him.  It’s not Tony or Wade, or Logan or Scott.  It’s not _Erik_.  It’s just him.  Deputy Commander Prince Charles Xavier.  The Nyrulians think that he holds the key to Raven’s tech, but they’re wrong.  They’re not going to get it now.  They’re _never_ going to get it now, not with Erik—

There’s a loud thud followed by the screech of metal, and Charles opens his eyes in horror as the side of the container splits open.  He sits frozen in place as a huge, circular mouth ringed with razor-sharp teeth pokes out of the hole, a snakelike tongue flicking in and out.  The mouth pushes against the edges of the hole, bending the metal back further as the Taxxon’s entire head emerges from the container.

Its bulbous red eyes squeeze out last, their stalks waving around wildly for a moment before all four of them suddenly stop, falling still.  Charles hardly dares to breathe.  All four of its eyes swivel slowly in unison to train on him, staring at him emptily.

“Oh _god_ ,” Charles whispers.

 

X

 

“And what the hell am I supposed to do with you exactly, huh?”

Rogers has the gall to shrug.  “That’s up to you, sir.”

Fury resists the temptation to drag a hand down his face.  Or shoot Rogers’ blond ass, which fuck it, he well deserves.  It’s just that then he’d have to deal with a ship-load of fangirls and fanboys in the nets complaining about the sacrilege of hurting those round fucking buttocks.

This is Fury’s life, seriously.

“Well you’re spending the afternoon in the brig, Rogers, and not a fucking word out of your mouth, you hear me?”

Rogers frowns.  “For how long, sir?”

“For as long as I fucking feel like it, blondie.  What, you got somewhere to be?”

The Paladin shifts his weight, uneasy.  “We should have a word, sir.”

“Oh, we will, Rogers, don’t you doubt that,” Fury smiles, and it must look pretty freaking sinister because the guards at either side of Roger’s ridiculously broad shoulders recoil.

“No,” the Paladin raises his hands, palm towards Fury, in a universal gesture of appeasement that, not surprisingly, has exactly zero effect on Fury.  “I mean now, sir.  You have to—”

“I don’t have to do shit,” Fury interrupts him hotly.  “You disobeyed a direct order, aided and abetted a criminal, then facilitated his escape while conspiring with a rogue Commander that has gone off the fucking stellar map along with his ship and all its fucking screw.  You’re a traitor, Rogers, so don’t come telling me what I _should fucking do_.”

Roger’s jaw muscles work for a second, his clear blue eyes fixed on the gleaming black plastic of the floors.  “I meant no disrespect,” he says calmly.  “It’s only the news I have for you is dire, sir, and a lot of lives depend on us not wasting time with beaurocratic—”

“Just take him to the brig,” Fury says tiredly, gesturing to the guards.

For a fraction of a second, Rogers looks frankly mutinous, bright eyes narrowed, lips thinned into a hard line.  But he nods, and goes along with the guards docilely enough.  Insisting, of course, would lead him nowhere, so anyone with half a neuron for tactical thinking would do precisely that.  He needs Fury for something, Nick can tell, so he’ll wait for Fury to come to him.

Which Nick will, soon enough, because he fucking needs the data Rogers has to give him.  He’s only letting him stew for a while as he does other important shit that’s been piling up, because Nick Fury’s life is space-cold hell, and let no one tell you different.

He takes the lift up to the bridge and walks in on a flurry of activity the likes of which Hell could not compete with.  Of course, the Keflar rescue operation is still underway, with enough survivors turning up per day to make Nick’s chest looser at night, though he still sleeps in restless snatches that afford him no relief from them deep, bone-chilling exhaustion settling in on him.

“Where are we on the Heartsteel, people?” he asks loudly as he strolls towards the sensor stations.

The Legionnaire at the main console makes a very unprofessional face and straightens.

“It’s gone, sir.”

Nick comes to a stop next to him and peers at the sensor readings.

“Be more specific, Legionnaire.”

“It’s gone entirely off sensors, sir.  Can’t pick it up anywhere near, not on that quadrant and not on a radius of twelve quadrants around.  I can’t trace their ion trail at all.  The ship is, for all intents and purposes, _gone_.”

Fury turns that information in his head, looking at it from different angles.

“So what you’re telling me is that someone hacked into my ship and scrambled my sensors to cover up Lehnsherr’s nonexistent ass.”

The man tilts his head from side to side, considering.

“Not the words I’d use, but yes, that’s a fair description.”

“And who the hell—” Fury interrupts himself and turns around, as if by some feat of design he could see through the many layers of steel and plastic and titanium that keep his ship together all the way down to the brig.  The brig where Steve Rogers is sitting like a particularly pretty appliance—the same Rogers who used to be associated with a certain Academy drop-out whose job in sensor programming was off the fucking charts.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he mutters, narrowing his eye, “if that’s not one lucky fucking coincidence.”

“Sir?”  The Legionnaire is looking at him in a way that suggests he’s come to be perfectly comfortable with Fury’s tendency to interrupt himself and deviate from other’s paths of thought by way of some brilliant bout of intellectual illumination.

“We’ll keep working on this, sir,” the man says.  “We’re bound to find a way around the sensor scrambling eventually.”

“I like how you think, Legionnaire.  Keep at it.”

It’ll be good for lateral thinking if nothing else, as it’s unlikely anyone in his team will manage to break into Tony Stark’s code.  The man designed the Ionstar’s systems; if anyone can fuck them up, it’s Stark.

Now the question of the hour is, why the fuck is Tony Stark sticking his nose in Lehnsherr’s business?  Sure, Fury’s looked at Xavier’s files—he knows Xavier and Stark were friends at the Academy.  Stark’s always toed the line, taking some sort of delight in being the kind of smart delinquent no one can pin shit on, elusive as a fucking Saturn eel, but he’s never gone as far as tipping into _breaking_ the goddamned fucking law.

Xavier’s hair gets ruffled and suddenly Fury’s got a rogue ship, a supterintelligent hacker newly turned criminal, and a mutinous Paladin on his hands.  And that’s on top of the Keflars being blown to bits and Fleet Command being unwilling to admit they all know perfectly fucking well who did it.

If Fury had any hair left besides his eyebrows, he’d be ripping out tufts of it.

It’s a sign of how the inactivity gets to Rogers that by the time Fury shows up at the brig, the man is pacing his cell restlessly instead of sitting down primly like he did the last five times he found himself in this pickle of a situation.

“Nervous, Rogers?” Fury asks casually, keying in his code to override the energy lock and step inside before it rises back up with a faint sizzle.

Rogers hesitates in a way that Fury has learned to read as the weighing of options; lie, or not lie.  Finally he tilts his head to the side.

“Nervous,” he agrees, and that’s an honest answer, alright.

Fury hums thoughtfully and helps himself to the one chair in the cell, forcing Rogers to either stand or sit on the edge of his cot.  Rogers’s lips pull downwards in a gesture that conveys his understanding of Fury’s intentions—to diminish him by being purposefully commanding—and takes the cot.  Odd choice.  Fury files it for later.

“Somewhere to be?” he asks with a smile.  “Got a hot date, maybe?”

Rogers’ eyebrows knit.  “Neither, sir.  I’m where I’m needed.”

Odd choice of words.  “I see.  Well, why don’t we skip the formal part of this bullshit mountain that is our current situation and fast-forward right ahead to what exactly went wrong in your skull that led you to help Charles Xavier escape?”

Rogers settles his hands calmly on his knees.  “Sir, if we’re really dispensing with the bullshit, you might as well admit that you know your charges against Charles were all lies.”

Oh, so Rogers wants a direct approach.  Alright.  Fury can play that game—it’s his fucking favorite game.

Fury lifts one finger and tilts his head.  “I’d call them more rushed conclusions than lies, Rogers.  You know how the Fleet works.  His name was going to be cleared eventually.  No lasting damage.”

“And meanwhile the real criminal flies away with impunity.”

“Look, Rogers, I don’t have all the information here.  I’m doing what I can, joining dots with a pen with no ink in a room that’s never still.  _In the dark_.”

Rogers considers that.  “That’s a fair description of intelligence gathering,” he concedes.

“ _Tell_ me about it,” Fury rolls his eyes.  Rogers manages a small smile, so Fury goes in for the kill.  “Not to mention your ex-boyfriend the boy wonder of system programming is jamming my sensors like he’s got nothing better to do with his day.”

Rogers’ face goes slack with surprise, which in turn shocks Fury, because Rogers’ is demonstrative, but that sort of genuine expression is rare in a well-trained officer.  Let alone a _Paladin_.

“You didn’t know,” Fury confirms quietly.

The blond man gives in and runs a hand through his hair in agitation.  Fury can almost see his mind turn that new information into a new variable to add to the equations already running through his head, altering the factors, messing up his calculations.  He leans forwards, ignoring the creak of his leather coat.

“ _Talk_ to me here, Rogers.  You guys are boxing me in, and you know how that’s going to end.  You wouldn’t be here now if you didn’t know that making me a free a wild-car in this game you’re playing is a bad fucking idea.”

Rogers hesitates, lacing his fingers together so hard that the tips of them go white.  He’s not in a corner, not exactly, but he sure is painting himself into one quickly.  He touches his forehead to his thumbs, curling in on himself in a strangely childish gesture that stuns Fury.  What’s got to him so bad?  The mention of Stark, possibly?  Anybody in the Fleet with an eye and half a brain knows that finished spectacularly bad, way back when.

Finally Rogers stands up and paces quickly for a moment, like the physical activity helps clear his restless mind.

“Why don’t you tell me what you’re already figured out, and we build form there?”

Reasonable.  It lets Rogers decide what to build on and in what direction, so it’s also cunning, but alright.  Fury will take it.

“I know bits and pieces,” he admits, ticking off on his fingers as he speaks.  “The Nyrulians wanted Keflar tech and they got tired of the Keflars telling them to shove it.  Erik Lehnsherr’s Heartsteel has some sort of Nyrulian tech, though God knows what exactly.  The Nyrulians want that tech in that ship.  They kidnapped Xavier presumably to strong-arm his boyfriend into giving them said tech.  Cain Marko is Xavier’s stepbrother and through _that_ and the status of his company had access to Xavier, enough access to deliver him to the Nyrulians.  What Marko got out of the deal is anyone’s fucking guess.”

Rogers sits back down in a startlingly abrupt movement, tense and alert.  Fury arches a brow at him.

“You know enough to put it all together, but—there are still things that I don’t know myself, or that I can’t tell you.  This can’t be full disclosure yet.  But you need to believe me, sir.”

Fury arches both his brows now, spreading his hands.  “What exactly am I supposed to believe, Rogers?”

Rogers looks like he wants to mince his words, but decides against it and goes for full pound instead.  “Everything I say.”

“That’s a bit of a stretch, Rogers, don’t you think?”

“It’s a leap of faith,” Roger admits quietly, blue eyes intent.

“I’m not the faithful sort, son.”

“Sir, I read your dissertation,” Rogers says calmly.  “You might be a cynical man, but you know the value of _trusting_.  I need you to trust me now.  I need you to believe that the reasons to let the Heartsteel handle itself far outweigh those to shoot it down.”

Fury sits back in his chair, sighing.  “And how do you plan on rewarding this faith, Rogers?”

The man swallows.  “I expect you’ll find a way to reward yourself, sir.  I’ll owe you a lot, after all.”

There’s a moment of silence, stretched taut between them like the string of an old-fashioned bow.

“Well,” Fury smiles slowly.  “You certainly have my attention.”

 

X

 

The Taxxon withdraws its head back into the darkness of the container and that’s when Charles unfreezes, scrambling along the wall as fast as he can.  He’s under no illusions that the container will last much longer, and he has no way to defend himself from a hungry Taxxon hell-bent on eating him.

He grits his teeth as he drags himself across the floor, so hard that his jaw creaks.  Every motion sends sharp, shooting pain up through his legs, his vision is dancing with black spots and oh god if he passes out now—

He hears the screech of metal as the Taxxon smashes its body against the side of the container again, widening the hole bit by bit.  Charles looks around frantically.  There is of course nothing that would be remotely effective in defending himself, so his next best bet is to somehow get out of reach.  The other storage containers in the hold vary in size, so if he can get himself up onto one and keep climbing from there, maybe he can hold out until Victor takes notice that his pet is loose.

Charles reaches a container that stands about as tall as he does when there’s a huge crash followed by another loud screech of metal, and the Taxxon bursts out of its container.  Charles doesn’t even bother to look, extending up as far as he can without standing to start pulling himself up, getting his better leg beneath him for leverage.  He moves as fast as he dares, not bothering to try and stifle the sob that slips out when his bad leg gives a painful wrench, clawing his way up to where he’d be standing if it weren’t for the fact that he’s clinging to the container for dear life.

Behind him comes the sound of many claws skittering across the floor and Charles hoists himself up onto the top of the container, fear-fueled adrenaline the only reason he has the strength.  He immediately rolls himself away from the edge, back towards the wall that the container sits against, and not a moment too soon—the Taxxon crashes into the container, jaws snapping as it starts trying to lift its bulk to reach him.

Charles pants, head reeling, but he forces himself back up, moving in a sort of half-crawl while keeping pressed back as much as possible.  The Taxxon hisses, lunging at him again and again, and each time Charles can see himself reflected in all four of its red, bulbous eyes.

He reaches the next set of containers.  These ones are stacked and if he can get himself up he’ll be that much more out of reach but he’s not sure if he can make it.  His breath is coming out in jagged, broken gasps and his arms are trembling with exertion, his vision narrowed down to small tunnels, nearly blanked out entirely.

He pauses a moment to wait until his head stops spinning and he won’t risk falling off the container due to his unsteadiness.

The Taxxon would probably make it quick.  It would be incredibly painful but Charles doubts it would last long—the alien centipede is ready to tear him to pieces and swallow him down.  The Nyrulians wouldn’t even get a chance to touch him.  He wouldn’t have to fight anymore.  He wouldn’t have to _feel_.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he swears, choking on the word with another helpless sob as he moves to pull himself up onto the next container.  He can’t feed himself to the Taxxon.  He’s not brave enough.  Somehow, some way, some tiny part of him is still clinging stupidly to life and he can’t _stop_.

The Taxxon lunges again, hissing furiously.  It can’t seem to lift itself high enough to lever its massive bulk up as to where it can climb after him—at least not yet.  If it keeps jumping eventually it’s going to get lucky.  Charles focuses on pulling himself up onto the next container, his strength nearly failing entirely when he’s only halfway up, hanging off the side, but then the Taxxon slams into the container below him, giving him the urgency he needs to get himself the rest of the way up.

Charles collapses as soon as he’s on top, folding forward with a whimper.  He’s dimly aware that his face is wet, but beyond that all he feels is pain, white-hot and searing like a star and just as overwhelming.  It hurts, it hurts, it _hurts_ and he just wants it to _stop_ —

His container starts to rock.

Charles lifts his head, peering down over the side.  The Taxxon smashes into the bottom container, making the one on top wobble at the impact.  Oh god.  It’s going to knock the containers over.  Charles rocks violently as the Taxxon crashes into the base again and again, driven into an unstoppable frenzy by its hunger.  Charles remains frozen in place, unable to even call out for help because it’s hopeless, Victor’s not going to hear him and even if he did, he wouldn’t be able to get down to the storage hold until it’s too late—

The Taxxon throws itself against the stacked containers one last time and Charles feels them give, letting out a strangled cry as they topple over, taking him down with them.  He slides off the top, hitting the floor so hard that all the air whooshes out of his lungs and his head hits the ground and there’s a bright burst of pain, much like a supernova, that wracks his entire body and then everything goes dark like the rest of space.


	11. I have nothing left to lose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We said this last time too, but sorry for the wait! We're coming up on the end so stick with us, guys!

Erik doesn’t use his office very often.

Most other Commanders he knows love their offices and retreat to them the first chance they get.  When he’d been serving as a Prince, his War-Prince had rarely set foot outside his office, relaying all orders via comm pad to Erik, who had command on the bridge.  This may be partially why he’s more comfortable now sticking solely to the bridge.  He’s used to being directly in control and in charge.  Having Raven makes everything even more convenient—he can file reports, log hours, divvy out wages, and monitor every last single process running on the Heartsteel straight from the bridge with Raven acting as the master program.

It stands to reason, then, that sinking down into the chair behind the sleek, polished desk feels unfamiliar and vaguely surreal, especially since he doesn’t have Charles standing calmly at ease across from him, ready to talk him down and out of marooning Logan and Scott on a volcanically active planet for the umpteenth time.  Charles always distinctly has a way with words when it comes to Logan and Scott and convincing Erik to keep them in his bridge crew, no matter what kind of ridiculous thing they’d done.  Good thing Erik had listened.

A flatscreen console is hardwired into the smooth surface of the desk, and as soon as Erik passes one hand across the sensitive glass it lights up with the Fleet’s logo, morphing quickly into a smaller icon for the Heartsteel.  Then the interface opens fully, unfolding as projected holographs floating over the surface of the desk; one large screen in the center flanked by a smaller screen on each side, tilted in slightly towards him at an angle.  Raven knows him well—the projection on the right displays power percentages for each of their fuel cells and rate of consumption as well as her running calculations for how much energy she’ll be siphoning off for her Mystique Mode, while the projection on the left shows the Heartsteel’s current trajectory on the pathway Logan has plotted, almost but not quite at Maximum Burn as they follow the ion trail Stark has set up for them.

The large center screen sits blank, thinly transparent enough for Erik to see right through it as the system waits for his command.  Erik pushes a hand through his hair, taking a long breath.  It is little surprise that it comes out shakily as his lungs protest even the motions of breathing, his chest still sore and bruised from being torn open and sewn back together again in a relatively short amount of time.  That’s not to say it’s the only reason he’s hurting, but it’s the one he prefers to focus on for right now. 

He needs to make one last transmission.  They’re nearing the edges of Earth Empire territory and while they won’t exactly be out of range once they cross into the Nyrulian side of the galaxy, they _will_ be going into deep cover.  This is his last chance, so to speak.

Erik clears his throat.  “Open the channel, Raven.”

“Yes sir.”

The channel opens and scrambles, signal beam reaching back like an invisible tether.  Erik sits up a little straighter, schooling his expression into the nearest semblance of calm that he can, and prepares to face the proverbial storm.

The other end of the transmission is snapped up right away as he expected, the image flickering once or twice before Raven adjusts it, the picture coming in sharp and clear.  “You.”

Erik gives a small nod in greeting.  “Emma.”

“I should hunt you down and blast your ship to pieces.”  The Grand Duchess is perhaps the only person in the galaxy who can outmatch him in both icy demeanor, as it’s practically her birthright, and blank mask facial expressions, and she certainly doesn’t disappoint now—except for her eyes.  Her eyes are fire.  “Traitor.”

“I thought I told you to stop being so dramatic,” Erik replies steadily, holding her gaze.  She’s white-faced with fury and no doubt she’s already trying to trace the signal back to the Heartsteel.  “Is that any way to treat an old friend.”

“I don’t know who you are anymore, Erik Lehnsherr,” Emma snaps, unwilling to be humored.  “Did you know that Fury’s put your ship at the top of the blacklist?  If I took you out I could practically be promoted all the way to goddamn _Empress_.”

“The throne wouldn’t suit you, I’m almost certain it isn’t white.”

“Are you out of your _mind_?” Emma hisses, mask finally cracking as she allows her fury to leach out from her eyes, her cheeks flushing with color and her lips pulled back in almost a snarl.  Erik thinks that if she were able to reach through the screen with her saber, she undoubtedly would happily run him through.  “We are on the edge of war, Lehnsherr, and _this_ is when you choose to defect?  Over _nothing_?”

Erik lets that sit for a moment between them, heavy in the recycled ship air.  He runs his hands slowly up and down the starched material of his uniform pant legs.  “Tell me, what exactly did Fury include in the official report?”

“I shouldn’t,” Emma retorts, but continues almost immediately, “The Heartsteel is listed as a Class One blacklisted ship, to be shot down as last resort if the Commander and his crew prove to be uncooperative in surrendering.  You and your little Deputy are wanted hauled in alive at all costs for questioning.”  She breathes out harshly through her nose.  “True to form, he didn’t say for what.”

“And that’s it, then?” Erik asks, staring her down.  “You’ll follow Fury’s word, even though he’s only given you half of it?”

“Orders are orders,” Emma answers coldly.  “At least one of us is still following them, as it is our _job_.”

“Once upon a time if one man had followed his orders down to the exact letter, I would be dead along with my parents.”  It hurts to say, even now with the passage of years to dull the pain of loss.  The fact of the matter remains—it’s a point he has to make.

He sees when his words hit home for Emma, watching as she deflates slightly—for her that means a small dip in her shoulders as she leans back in her chair.  Emma knows.  She’d barely escaped First Earth alive herself on a transporter bound for Second Earth.  It’d been one of the things that had initially created the biting comradery between them long ago on their first mission; fresh out of their respective Academies and ambitious for positions far more elevated than their starting respective ranks.

“It doesn’t have to be like this.”  Emma is calmer now, her initial fires banked down to a low smolder.  She regards him with her piercing gaze, sizing him up like he’s an equation with a missing variable that she can’t quite place.  “Turn your Deputy in, Erik.  The whole Fleet already knows that the charges against him are baseless.  The Paladin won’t be able to hold him for long.  Would it really kill you to swallow your damn pride and—”

“They have him,” Erik says, a wrench to his gut much like losing gravity itself, and Emma stops.

She rests her elbows on the arms of her chair and steeples her fingers together; looks at him long and hard.  She knows who Erik means by _they_.  She knows why returning to Fury now would be pointless.  She knows that waiting for things such as _orders_ would make Erik far, far too late.  Erik doesn’t hide from her; he stares back, letting her read everything directly from his face.  She’d specialized in interrogation, once upon a time.  They used to say she could read anyone like an open book.

“I’d like to meet this Charles Xavier for longer than ten minutes one day,” Emma says at length, unblinking, “if only to see what kind of man could possibly have such an effect on you.”

“Charles is…”  Erik trails off, not for lack of words but rather for abundance; how can he apply just one term to Charles when in reality it would take a universe of words, in all known dialects?  He settles for the most hackneyed—and also the most concise.  “Charles is everything.”

“He’d better be.”  Emma straightens in her chair, lowering her hands back down to the armrests.  Perhaps a throne would suit her after all.  “What is it that you need me to do.”

Erik can feel his entire body wanting to sag in relief, even though he doesn’t allow it.  “I need you to be ready.  They’re coming, Emma.”

“I already know that,” she says harshly.  “I don’t need to be told, least of all from the one on his way to kick the hornet’s nest.”

Erik tries not to wince.  It’s a selfish thing that he’s doing, in most— _all_ —regard, but there’s no going back now.  He will not abandon Charles.  “I need two favors.”

“Tch.  You hardly deserve one.”  Her voice has lost all bite.  “You’re lucky that I like you, though the reason why escapes even me.”

“Careful,” Erik answers, “they’ll start to think you have a heart.”

Emma makes a derisive sound in contempt.  “I’m not the lovesick fool, now, am I?”  She flicks an invisible speck of lint off her shoulder.  “Hurry up, Erik.  Before I change my mind.”

“Before you interrupt,” Erik warns, “just let me finish first.”

Emma’s expression doesn’t change.  “We’ll see about that.”

 

X

 

Waking up is like being a single molecule in a molecular cloud, chaotic and unpredictable initially before collapsing down into a wide, flat disc with all the rest, circling around faster and faster as gravity begins to take its toll, growing hotter and brighter and—

Waking up in absence of pain is just as jarring as waking up in nothing but pain, and it takes Charles a few distorted, confusing moments to get his bearings straight as he blinks rapidly in the face of bright, florescent light overhead.  Nothing.  There’s no pain.

There’s no _pain_.  It’s overwhelming that nothing comes after his immediate, instinctual full-body tense as he automatically braces himself for the hurt to sink in, and for a moment he could almost believe that he’s dead if it weren’t for the fact that he lets out a small, aborted sound that very much signifies that he is in fact still breathing.  He sits up too quickly, reality trickling back in—his vision spins dizzyingly and now he can feel a full-body bone-deep ache, though it’s still nothing compared to before.

_There’s no pain._

Charles yanks off the thin sheet that covers him, his eyes flying down to his legs.  They’re both still there.  All his body parts seem to be, for that matter, which is something he’s going to need to examine more closely once he’s done staring at his legs.

They’ve healed him.  The significant lack of pain is proof enough, but here is evidence he can directly see despite his blatant disbelief.  The burns from the plant vine on his better leg have been treated and are already faded; with enough time they may not even leave a scar.  The bruises are gone completely and when Charles shifts his leg tentatively his muscles only protest with the good sort of ache, as if he’s merely had a long workout instead of—reality.  His destroyed knee on his other leg has been treated too as far as he can tell, covered for now in stiff, precise wrappings that serve far better than Tony’s sticks.  Charles moves this leg too and his knee only gives an unpleasant twinge.

Further inspection of the rest of his body yields more of the same—every last scrape and bruise he’s accumulated over the past few nightmarish hours have been wiped entirely from his body.  It’s no wonder that he aches; he’s undergone an entire body-mod healing session while he was unconscious, and just the thought of it is making his throat close up as he grasps the edges of the thin sleeping pad he’s sitting on, forcing himself to keep breathing. 

They—there’s no question that he’s in the hands of the Nyrulians now, as this small, sterile room certainly isn’t Victor’s ship—could have done anything to him while he was out, and he has no way of telling.  The thought alone is enough to make his skin crawl and he spends several moments focusing on not dry heaving over the side of the tall bed that looks and feels more like a platform or table in the center of the tiny room, the only feature in it beside the airtight doorway currently sealed shut.

Charles waits for his tunnel vision to slowly broaden, his breathing gradually evening out, though his heart rate remains slightly elevated—there’s no way he can calm himself entirely.  He’s never felt more like a rat in a trap but he pushes his panic down, containing it bit by bit until he’s no longer quite on the precipice of a mindless meltdown.  He knew where Victor was taking him.  This is to be expected.  He’s lucky he wasn’t woken up under the knife, as it were.  He’s fine.  For now.

There’s a small pile of clothes at the end of the bed so Charles slides his legs off the edge and cautiously slips down to his feet, keeping most of his weight off his bad knee.  His other leg doesn’t protest at all, which is an actual novelty at this point, but when he gingerly tries shifting to his other leg his knee throbs once, hard enough to make him cringe.  That settles that.

He dresses quickly and efficiently, his movements a little stiff, and only briefly does he mourn the loss of his Starfleet uniform—or rather whatever had been left of it, as it’d been in tatters.  The duds he’s been given now are eerily similar in a way; simple trousers and a jacket, though they are noticeably white, which makes him feel more like an inpatient than anything else.  Even the shoes are white.  Everything fits him perfectly, which is starting to lead his thoughts down towards places he’s not sure he wants to go so he quickly quells them, squeezing his eyes shut as he braces himself forward against the table.

He wonders what happened to the Taxxon that had been moments away from eating him alive the last time he’d been conscious.  One of the containers must’ve fallen on it and crushed it on the way down, because otherwise there’s no plausible reason for it to not have torn him to pieces.  Charles can still keenly remember staring down its gaping jaws and wavering, wondering if he was capable of mustering up the courage to let it have him.  The thought now makes him ill, an acidic wash of shame that roils in his stomach queasily.

Charles opens his eyes, straightening slowly.  It feels good to be standing on his own; a small reclaim of his dignity and the illusion of being less vulnerable.  It’s surprising, in that sense, that they’ve bothered to heal him at all, especially given that they’d sent Victor Creed after him in the first place.  Perhaps they think he’ll be grateful and therefore more willing to submit to their demands for the secrets of the Heartsteel’s Keflar tech.

Well, he thinks grimly, this is it.  They’re in for a large disappointment.

He’s only slightly proud that he can think it without his hands threatening to shake.  Erik would approve.  Charles can imagine him here now, one broad, slim-fingered hand pressed reassuringly to the space between Charles’ shoulder blades, easing the tension alone just by being there.  Easy, easy.

With a loud hiss of compressed air being released, the door abruptly slides open.  Charles takes his hands off the table and straightens entirely as two towering Nyrulians step through the doorway, confirming what Charles already knew.  The florescent light reflects nauseatingly off the tops of their sickly-green bulbous heads, and certainly not helping is the way the clump of tentacles surrounding their mouths are each a constant waving, writhing mass, nearly with a life of their own.  They each hold a heavy-duty plasma gun, cocked and ready as if they were expecting him to try anything.

“Charles Xavier.”  One of them speaks, his name slipping out past the tentacles as two pairs of large eyes that so closely resemble watery black pools that Charles can practically see his reflection in them. They are trained on him unblinkingly.

“I hope you weren’t expecting anyone else,” Charles says blankly when it becomes clear they’re waiting for him to answer.  He hadn’t _allowed_ them to take anyone else.  He’d made sure of it.  It’s a strangely comforting thought to have, even while staring down the plasma gun barrels.

“Hands out.”  The two Nyrulians move in sync around either side of the table, coming at him from both sides.  Charles complies, having no desire to be shot at point-blank range— _Erik_ —and holds out his arms, remaining still while cuffs are fitted to his wrists, binding them tightly together.  It seems they’ve learned from last time, at the very least.  He won’t be making a dashing escape into the ship’s ventilation shafts this time.

He very nearly almost laughs at the thought, while another part of him wonders what’s wrong with him.  His emotions are oscillating wildly between terror and hysterics, neither of which bode well.  It all feels like a very bad dream as the Nyrulians march him back around the side of the table towards the door, each with one cold hand wrapped around his biceps on either side of him.  They’re not taking any chances at all.

Charles limps between them down a long, featureless hallway, doing his best to aggravate his knee as little as possible.  Fortunately they don’t seem to be in too much of a hurry because while the Nyrulians are keeping their pace steady, they’re not dragging him along and are instead allowing him to walk as best as he can, though they don’t loosen their grip on him in the slightest.  The corridor is lined with several other airtight doors all sealed shut, so Charles assumes that they’re down in the brig.  If they are, it’s a rather large one.  This ship must be massive.

He’d ask where they’re going if he even remotely thought he’d get an answer, so instead he remains silent as they step into an elevator at the end of the hall.  He wonders if they’re going to ask him nicely first or if they’re going to go straight into the more painful ways of extracting information—though they _did_ heal him, which makes no sense unless they’re just playing a game with his head, in which case he’s fairly sure it’s working.  The all-too-familiar sensation of being unraveled at the seams is starting to come back to him as fear permeates like a slick, toxic oil that clings viscously to his insides.

Charles hates that he’s so afraid and despite his best efforts is letting it show as he’s trembling again between the two Nyrulians, hates that he’s not strong enough to bundle it away and keep it hidden and appear as untouchable, but this is who he is; one tiny human standing alone in the face of destruction, way out of his league in water too deep that reaches far over his head.  Some stars are bright when they die, erupting into supernovae that can be seen clear across the galaxy in all their splendor and regalia, one last tremendous burst of light and energy in a defiant bid to be seen and remembered, but others pass more quietly, expanding in size first before diminishing, tapering off into dwarves with a quieter kind of dignity as they burn on through the cosmos.

Charles identifies with the latter sort of star, he thinks numbly as the elevator comes to a stop and the doors slide open, maybe with not as much poise and certainly not the same grandeur—but while perhaps he is no supernova, he still ought to count for _something_ , if only for making it this far.  He’s afraid, but maybe there’s nothing wrong with that.

The Nyrulians guide him out of the elevator and he’s momentarily blinded by a bright, searing light coming from the window that covers one entire wall—an observation deck?—but when he blinks his vision clear and the dancing black spots finally fade Charles comes to a dead stop in his tracks, for standing by the window and turning to face them now as they step out onto the deck is literally the last person in the entire universe that he ever would have expected to see here and now.

He probably should have guessed.

“Hello, Charles,” says Kurt Marko, “how are you, son?”

 

X

 

Emma stares at him for a few long moments after Erik has finished speaking, allowing the silence to settle heavily between them.  To her credit she hadn’t interrupted him once, watching him speak with the same icy regard a passing comet holds for a planet; deciding whether or not to give into gravity’s call and smash into its surface.  Erik can only look back at her wearily, waiting for what he knows will be her inevitable fury.  He knows how her temper works, and he’s practically set a lit match to a short fuse.

“You ask too much, Lehnsherr,” she says tightly, so close to shouting at him even as she keeps herself under tight check.  “You—you can’t possibly be _foolish_ enough to go through with this—”

“Emma,” Erik interrupts her quietly.  “Don’t.”

She looks at him and breathes harshly through her nose, once, twice, and then, mercifully, lets out a long sigh.  “I don’t understand.”

“I can’t leave him,” Erik answers, an ugly mantra that has been on loop in his head ever since he woke up in the med bay of his own ship.  It’s not the first time he’s spoken it aloud and it won’t be the last.  Charles is his own personal black hole, and Erik will never achieve a great enough escape velocity—never wants to—to _not_ want to go tearing off across the galaxy, the _universe_ if it comes to that, to find him again. 

According to Tony, Charles thinks that Erik is dead.  The knowledge is unbearable and he can’t even bring himself to voice it aloud to Emma.

“We wasted enough years,” he says, only a slightly less painful admittance because that’s no one’s fault but his own, “I’m not going to lose him now.  They took him when it’s me they should’ve been after.”

“If you even _start_ to feel sorry for yourself in my presence—”

“I’m not.” Erik cuts her off sharply.  He’s already gotten a form of that speech from Logan and Scott of all people, and while he deserves it, it’s certainly not something he wants to hear again from Emma right now.  “This is not about me.  It’s about Charles.”

“It’s always been about Charles for you.”  Emma is close to rolling her eyes.  “That isn’t what I don’t understand—damn it, Erik, I’ve always understood that part.  Why _else_ do you think I’m even remotely interested in sitting him down for a chat one day in the name of science.”  She hardens again.  “What really I don’t understand are the two favors you want from me.”

“Call it a contingency plan,” Erik says tightly.

Emma’s practically gnashing her teeth at him, which would under any other circumstances be amusing if it weren’t touching instead.  Erik knows exactly what issues Emma has with the favors he’s asked of her and they both know that it’s only out of a matter of necessity that he’s even asked in the first place.  He’s grateful, in that regard, to have someone who treads a line of mutual understanding with him, someone he can rely on and trust.  Especially with this.

“Sir, you’re needed on the bridge,” Raven says, loud enough for Emma to overhear through the transmission.  On the left side panel of his screen he can see that the Heartsteel is approaching the edge of the Earth Empire quadrant of space territory.  There’s another ship moving swiftly after them, coming up from behind, and when Raven obligingly hones in on it Erik has to fight not to raise an eyebrow at the information she pulls up on the display.

“I have to go,” Erik says, flicking his eyes back to Emma.

“Of course you do.”  Emma sounds more resigned than angry.  Normally he’d call her on it, but now isn’t the time.  She levels him with one last severe look, drawing herself up straight and proud.  “Go, then.  But you’d better come back.  You’ll owe me and I intend to collect.”

“I’d never dream of purposefully avoiding you,” Erik answers wryly.  Almost funny, really, how he avoids making any kind of promise now—if funny is the right word.  He clears his throat.  “Emma.  Thank you.”

“Quite right,” Emma answers carelessly, but then she takes him completely by surprise by snapping her right hand and wrist up to her temple, fingers level with one perfectly-shaped eyebrow.  Saluting in the fleet is done by choice rather than protocol—a sign of the highest regard and respect, one Erik hardly thinks he deserves, least of all from her.

“Emma—”

“Bring him home or don’t come back at all,” Emma says smoothly and then cuts the transmission, rendering Erik’s screen empty and transparent once more.

Erik squeezes the armrests of his chair tightly for a moment before levering himself to his feet and striding out of his office.  That takes care of that.  He can leave this side of things in Emma’s capable hands with a clear enough conscience.

“We’re right on the boundary, sir,” Logan reports around the unlit cigar in his mouth when Erik steps back onto the bridge.  The atmosphere isn’t exactly tense, but no one is relaxed either.  Both Scott and Logan have turned in their seats expectantly to watch him approach.

“Summers?”  Erik prompts, sinking into his captain’s chair without comment on why he’d chosen to make a transmission out of his office rather than on the bridge.  They don’t need to know.

Scott frowns at him but swivels back around.  “Raven’s giving me the green light on everything, we’re clear to go.  Stark’s ion trail is still holding up so we’ve got our path to keep following, but it’s going to be like last time as far as our map goes.  We have some data as far as star systems go, but we don’t know the finer details.  We’re way off from where we were the last time we took a little trip into this neck of the woods.”

“We’ll stick to the trail this time,” Erik says as Logan snorts, no doubt recalling their previous foray into a belt of live mines.  As exciting as it’d been, Erik’s not looking for any kind of repeat.

“We’re being hailed, sir,” Cassidy says uncertainly right as Raven openly indicates to the bridge that her sensors have picked up another ship in the vicinity.

“Who the fuck’s all the way out here?” Scott demands incredulously.

Erik nods once.  Right on time.  “Put it through.”  The map blinks off the main screen as Sean opens the channel, and a face that is becoming increasingly familiar comes into view.  “Hello, Mr. Wilson.”

“Master Captain Commander Admiral Colonel General Lord War-Prince Lehnsherr,” Wade Wilson says with a manic sort of determined look in his eyes.  “Requesting an audience.”

“Jesus Christ,” Logan mutters.

“Granted,” Erik says shortly.  “Make it brief.”  He’s interested in what the fuck, exactly, Wilson’s doing following them out here and thinks he can guess, but he’s also not interested in sticking around for a three-hour long rambling story that diverts into no less than twelve different tangents.

“I want to come with you to rescue His Majesty from the Nyrulihoops,” Wilson answers, surprisingly cutting right to the chase and unsurprisingly confirming Erik’s guess.  “He’s my bro for life.”

“Whoa there,” Scott raises his hands. “I don’t think Charles gave in to any sort of life commitments to your sagging ass—”

“He’s kinda taken,” Logan confirms.

Erik considers Wilson for a long moment.  The bounty hunter stares back, the crossed hilts of his swords framing his head.  “Raven, get a lock on his ship and open the lower bay.”  It only makes sense.  Wilson will have to ride with them if they want to avoid blowing their cover.

“Yes sir.”

“You bring great honor to your family,” Wilson says seriously, whatever that means, and then the transmission ends as he presumably begins to prepare his ship for landing in the Heartsteel.

“What the fuck,” Scott says, looking back at him, “are you sure about this?”

Erik gives him a look.  “Rasputin, make sure Mr. Wilson makes it onboard and finds his way somewhere where he will not be in the way.” He deliberates for a moment. “Don’t let him touch anything.”

“Yes sir.”  The temporary Deputy doesn’t seem entirely confident either as he heads off the bridge, but at least he’s not openly questioning Erik unlike certain others.

“You remember that he’s fucking crazy, right?” Logan asks as the elevator doors slide shut.

“If I refused him, he’d follow us anyway,” Erik retorts grimly, “and that would increase our chances of being prematurely discovered.  In any case, he’ll be useful.  He got Charles out alive last time.”

Logan exchanges a glance with Scott but neither of them says anything more.  As soon as they’re both turned fully forward again Erik lets out a slow, silent breath.  Having Wilson along is only extra insurance.  The bounty hunter may be slightly—completely—deranged, but he’s also completely loyal to Charles for whatever reason, and that’s good enough.  Erik knows through Charles’ accounts that Wilson’s double blades aren’t for show either.

As the matter stands, Erik has a job for Wilson.

“The Heart of Gold is secured, sir,” Raven reports, and thank god she doesn’t use its other name.

“Good.”  Erik looks back at the main screen, which has reverted to their immediate scope of space.  Directly ahead is Nyrulian territory, where they will once again take the plunge.  Well.  To boldly go.  “Summers, I want constant monitoring of that trail.  Howlett, keep us steady.  And Raven.”  He takes a breath.  Calm.  He can keep it together for just a little while longer.  “Engage Mystique Mode.”

 

X

 

He has no titles that could be used in any sort of introduction, no letters in front of his name or great achieved things that would justify and allow his presence everywhere.

He doesn’t need them.  

He doesn’t want to exist—he wants to be a ghost, a vaguely outlined shadow behind massive shining men, shielded by their brilliance so that they create by existing a pocket of anonymous space in which he can maneuver with the ease of an eel or snake.

He has a name, which he rarely uses, and it’s as much a cover as any other.

He sails through space in a ship he’s never named, with muted green paint and shining silver edges, sleek and sharp and fast like a knife to the throat.

Now he leans back in his chair and muses silently as he braids his jet-black hair, keeping an eye on his three main display monitors.

The one in the far right monitors and keeps track on all Star Fleet communications—an insurance of sorts.  The gallant officers of the Fleet appear to be a ship short, and can consequently be seen flailing around like undignified ducklings.  Oh, but they are so dramatic.  You get one traitor and people start panicking like rats in rising water.  This is precisely why he never went into the military himself.  Everything is so tediously black and white.

The one in the far left keeps track and monitors all communications in the Nyrulian fleet comm systems.

The one in the center tracks down any and all information regarding transactions, odd financial movements, and peculiar technology developments in Marko Enterprises.  Suffice it to say odd movements are aplenty.  At his behest the system is running a movement parallelism between Marko’s last known whereabouts, the Nyrulian messages and orders, and the Keflar massacre.

There’s something there.  But he’s missing data—data contained in only the safest of the Nyrulian servers, hidden behind towering firewalls he’ll not easily crumble.  It galls him to have to admit it, but the Nyrulians have lately learned a thing or two regarding data security.  It’s irritating and time-wasting and he resents it, all the more because clearly someone must have upgraded their systems, and it can’t have been a Nyrulian.

The comm screen to his right starts beeping with an incoming message.  He glances at it, identifies the course, and proceeds to calmly ignore it.  He’s busy.  It’ll go away, he knows, if he ignores it long enough.

Only it keeps beeping.

Finally he growls and shoves away from the main console to tap the screen.

“What?  I’m busy.”

“Brother, I need your help.” Thor’s face is creased with earnest concern.  Loki would be moved, if not for the fact Thor’s face has wrinkles from all his day-to-day earnest fucking concern.  Him and his bleeding heart.  He gets it form their mother, surely.  Loki hasn’t seen Odin be earnest in all his life.  The man is a snake.

He gives his brother a narrowed-eyed look. 

“What did you do this time?”

This is a valid question, Loki feels, because Thor is _earnest_ when he’s supposed to be a businessman, and hell if Loki hasn’t had to pull the company out of too many damn bad deals because Thor just has so much overflowing _trust_.  Who would put someone like Thor at the head of a company and why escapes Loki entirely.

Thor inhales deeply, glances at something to his left, and then refocuses on Loki.  “Don’t be alarmed, but I think the Nyrulians are on the move.”

Loki is not alarmed.  He is, however, somewhat surprised Thor is not bumbling his way through the universe unaware of any sort of political of military maneuver of any race in any corner of any galaxy as is his usual method of continued existence.

“And?” He arches his brows.

Thor stares at him, like it surprises him that Loki has absorbed basic worldy knowledge before he has, though gods know why, and finally manages to take it in stride.  

“You see, we—”

Thor is abruptly put out of sight when the monitor he’s looking at is rotated to the left and someone else shows up on screen, scruffy and ashen-faced and unpleasantly tired-looking.

“I need you to help me scramble communications in both the Nyrulian and Third Earth fleets.  I need to hide a ship.”

Loki blinks at the man.  He thinks he knows him from somewhere.

“I do believe you’re supposed to buy me dinner before you ask me to commit high treason and other assorted crimes punishable by death or life imprisonment.”

That’s not even mentioning what the Nyrulians will do to him if they found out.  Though that, Loki supposes, is something of a given matter in any case.  He’s been dodging the Nyrulians for months now and the Universe knows they’d enjoy tearing him apart.

The man rubs at the corner of his red-rimmed left eye.  Loki squints.  He does know him from somewhere, but he can’t pinpoint it exactly.  It’s unnerving.  Loki never forgets faces.   He flicks a finger and discreetly starts up a face-recognition software.

“Here’s the thing.  Someone got kidnapped by the Nyrulians and I’ve been tracking the ship they’re on but now it just—” he makes a vague gesture with his hands.  They are strong, long-fingered, square-nailed hands, peppered with tiny little scars and burns.  The hands of an engineer.  “Disappeared.”

“Nonsense,” Loki snaps distractedly.  His software is still scanning but nothing is coming up.  Interesting.  “Ships don’t disappear.  You’ve lost the trail.”

“No, the trail ends,” the man corrects.  He shifts and does something, and Loki receives a file on his screen.  Opening it reveals a trail path and a star map in which the most prominent thing is the lack of anything of interest.

“There’s nothing there, but it’s like the ship just stopped moving.”

Loki sits up.  “Oh, there’s something there alright,” he says darkly.

He pulls up his own modified star charts, the products of months of skulking and spying, and compares them to the incomplete, poorly drawn Starfleet chart.  In an act of completely unwarranted kindness, he decides to share them with Thor’s ship.

Thor and the man lean in close, frowning.  The trail ends, as the engineer says, at a rather random spot in space which appears at first glance to be the middle of icy nowhere.  Or so it appears in Starfleet’s charts.  In Loki’s, however, a series of converging trails and the existence of assorted border-guarding ships—low-range faring, small in size though not negligible in firepower—suggest something else.

“A relay station?” the engineer asks, doubtful.

Loki hums in thought, studying the screens.

“As you know,” he says thoughtfully, tapping a finger against the console.  “Nyrulians don’t actually have a single home planet that anyone knows of—not even _I_ have found evidence otherwise.  Instead they have spread themselves across multiple star systems in a vast network of bases and outposts.  It appears to me that your ship has made berth on the fifth planet of this system here.”  He highlights the star near where the ship’s trail has been lost and continues blithely, “My assumption would be just an outpost.”

There’s a moment of silence.

“Where the hell did you get this chart?” the engineer asks suspiciously.

“I compiled it.  Who’s been kidnapped?  That doesn’t sound like the Nyrulians.  They prefer immediate execution that’s showy as possible—”

He stops, mind racing. Slowly, he sits up straight and starts manipulating screen, pulling up files of recent and past ship trails he’s documented.  He knows at least two of those were prisoner transport ships from the Nyrulian’s prison planet.  A quick perusal of the results makes him look at the engineer straight-on, severe.

“I’m sure you thought this was bad before,” he starts, somber.  “But I assure you.  It’s worse.”

 

X

 

War-Prince Phillip Coulson, veteran of the Nyrulian Conflict, twice decorated for bravery and gallantry in the field of battle, secretly high-ranking officer in Starfleet Intelligence, who holds no posting of importance in any ship and certainly is not the confidante and trusted right-hand of Paladin Fury but yet somehow has more access to confidential files than half the Starfleet Command Board, nicknamed by the somewhat bewildered intelligence masses as Not-Even-He-Knows-What-He-Does-Coulson, is a mild man.

He’s mildly good looking, has average height and build, has a fixed mild expression and a mild, dry sense of humor, hardly ever raises his voice, and has an economical, military sort of body language.

He stands now, as he often does, behind Paladin Fury’s chair, hands folded mildly in front of him, face set on a mildly interested and polite expression, like he knows exactly how many inches his eyebrows have to be apart from one another to be perfectly neutral, like expression is a mathematical equation.

Rogers is making a compelling case for himself, and what he says is certainly of interest, but there’s a lot of justification and explanation and attempting to convince and very little in the way of actual planning.  It’s a little disappointing coming from one of Starfleet’s star strategists, but Coulson supposes Rogers has had it rough in the last few days.

Coulson’s eyes flit to the right as Vicereine Hill slips into the room and makes her way on silent feet towards him.

“Sir, there’s something you might want to see.  Someone’s hailing us.”

Coulson turns his face slightly towards her, in that mildly robotic way he knows puts people on edge.  “What about the jamming signal?” he asks quietly.

“Our systems suggest the hailing comes from the same ship emitting the jamming signal.”

Now Coulson actually looks at her.  “Whoever meant to leave us uncommunicated now decided they want to communicate with us?”

“Apparently, sir.”

“Let’s have a look,” Coulson says, smiling slightly, in the tones of someone delightedly saying ‘let’s poke the angry murderous animal that has a mouthful of two-inch-long poisonous fangs with a sharp electrified stick, repeatedly.’

The main bridge of the Ionstar is designed in a tiered arrangement, much like the bridge of an ancient sea-faring battleship, with a design-logic quite removed from normal Starfleet vessels.  At the back of the bridge a raised platform holds a screen-glass round table at all times displaying the Ionstar crest, surrounded by twelve chairs, one for each main command officer.  In front of it is the parent command console, composed of several displays tracking meaningful ship data, all of it condensed into a data engine manufactured specifically for paladin Fury’s needs and requirements.  Along the console is the principal rudder control, much like an ancient rudder wheel, which Fury may or may not at any time be piloting himself.

Beneath the platform spreads the main bridge, a carefully tiered space tailored for Fury’s peculiar command tendencies.  When he isn’t piloting himself, the secondary rudder rises just beneath the principal, on the upper tier.  Beneath the pilot are the ship activity monitors, tracking everything from oxygen consumption to engine exhaust.  Beneath it in a circle lie two well-manned combat station tiers—offensive and defensive.  The rest of the combat stations are spread across the ship, in turrets and nooks and hidden spots where weaponry would not commonly be found.

And at the outer tier by the two-story high view screens are the analysts and data recollection stations, the communications consoles and the star-charting engines.

This is where Coulson heads, moving briskly along one of the raised well-polished gangways.

“What’s the news?” he asks once he arrives at the Chief Communication Officer’s station.

The man looks vaguely sullen.

“The hacker says he won’t speak with anyone but Paladin Rogers.”

“Hm,” Coulson nods.  “Have you confined his access to the bridge?”

“To this console,” the man jabs at his own station.  “And it was no easy fit, and it won’t last, either.”

“No, I shouldn’t think so,” Coulson agrees, and ignores the way the man looks stormy-eyed.  He gestures at him to withdraw and takes his place in front of the screen.

“Ah,” he says, “Mr. Stark.  Long time no see.”

Anthony Stark stares at him from the screen, mouth half-open.  He clicks it shut and squints at Coulson warily.  “We’ve met?”

“We haven’t.  You left Starfleet in a rather abrupt manner.  We were sad to see you go.  Whatever troubled you has run its course, I trust?”

“It was sort of a personal matter, you understand,” Star says breezily.  “I need to talk to Steve Rogers, and I know you have him there.  Put him on.”

“I’m afraid he’s not available at the moment,” Coulson smiles.

“What he’s doing isn’t more important than saving someone’s life,” says Stark, visibly struggling for patience.

“On the contrary, Mr. Stark, what he’s doing now may contribute in saving many lives.  Perhaps you’d be kind enough to hold?”

Stark stares at him.  “Are you really joking right now?  Someone’s life is on the line.  A whole _ship_ is on the line.  More than five hundred—”

“The Heartsteel is commanded by a traitor and a deserter and manned by men and women guilty of aiding and abetting, best case scenario,” Coulson cuts through him calmly.  “If its chosen path concerns you, you might consider hailing _them_.”

“They’re not picking up hailing frequencies,” Stark mutters, strained and pale.

“No, I shouldn’t think they are, what with the entire fleet hunting them down.  Thank you for helping with that, by the way.  I estimate they have trespassed into Nyrulian territory by now.”

Stark drops his face forward onto the palms of his hands and rubs it roughly for a moment,  and Coulson taps idly at the screen, swiping back and forth between different programs and tracking systems and firewalls in a vague, not very interested attempt to make any sense of this whole, pointless mess.  A whole ship of young, brilliant, promising deserters, led by two of the most talented officers in the Fleet.  It makes him a little sad, in a detached sort of way.

“Ah,” he says, and hums thoughtfully, recalling some of Rogers’ narrative.  “Did Mr. Xavier run into unforeseen complications?”

Stark’s eyes flash with ferocity.  “ _Prince_ —”

“Mr. Xavier is no longer welcomed to his previous or, indeed, any rank,” Coulson says calmly.  “Unless he finds it in himself to return his person to this ship, and subject himself to a court martial.  Hm.  Is that Asgard company tech?  I hope you’re not trying to rope the young Mr. Loki Odinson into this mess.  He’s teetering in the edge of illegality already.  Did you know—”

“I’ll go back to the Fleet,” Stark says quietly.  Coulson stops, eyes darting up to meet Stark’s.  The man looks tired and dirty and at the end of his rope—a rope that cannot, by any means, be long.  Coulson feels a lick of disquiet climb up spine.  If Stark has lost all hope of achieving the unachievable on his own, then the galaxy truly is falling apart.  “I’ll go back or I’ll be a consultant or—or whatever, okay, just let me talk to Steve.  He’ll figure out a way to get Lehnsherr to pick up his comms.  Steve is—he’ll figure it out.”

Yes, Coulson thinks, he will.  Figuring hopeless tangles out is what Paladin Steve Rogers does best.  And maybe he _will_ find some way to convince the Heartsteel to pay attention, maybe even slow down the engines and wait—make them listen to reason.  A man that could demand enough attention and respect to have Nicholas Fury stand still and _listen_ could just about make the galaxy stop turning.

In an analytical and cold way Coulson realizes this is a sweet deal.  Stark is one of a kind, unique, brilliant in ways unseen across the whole wide Universe.  He’s an asset which, untamed, can too easily become a threat.  It’s Coulson’s instinct to reach out and grasp the chance to leash him immediately, but—but.

Stark’s been lying low for several years since his brusque abandonment of his otherwise brilliant Starfleet career.  If he were to become a threat at any point, it would have happened already.  What happened instead was he disassembled a weapon-developing company worth as much as any medium-sized planet and descended quietly into obscurity.  Stark isn’t interested in money and he doesn’t want fame.  Not anymore at any rate.  If he’s not a security risk Coulson can’t bring himself to tie him up in the endless, convoluted loops of Starfleet bureaucracy.  You have a bird, you let it fly.  Maybe it’ll come back.  You chain it up, though—well.

More than that, though, there’s this.  This hopeful gleam in Stark’s resigned, red-rimmed eyes, this manic need to trust, the desperate urge to believe Rogers can figure it out, work out the kinks, fix everything.  Coulson knows stuff nobody else knows and he knows how Stark and Rogers started, and he knows how they ended, and for how brief and sad it was it must have been a thing of beauty.  Rogers is the sort of guy that rolls with the punches and if Stark left, Rogers probably thinks he’s been left behind, alone in a tangled net of feelings no longer returned.  Stark, though—Stark doesn’t get over anything.

Coulson straightens, blinking to readjust his eyes to the great command deck of the Ionstar.

“Hm,” he says, mildly, mildly.

“Chief Communications Officer, break the firewall and allow the connection to the ship-wide comm system.  I’ll take full responsibility.”

Stark looks startled and hopeful, and Coulson stares at him as he asks his CCO how long it’ll take him to track down the ship Stark is currently in through the communication link.

“Six minutes, sir.”

Coulson stares at Stark.  “You have four.”

 

X

 

“Can I ask you a question?” Alex asks, looking tentative.

“I don’t see how I can fucking stop you,” Scott mutters, without looking up from his worktable where he’s busy trying to chart stars on the fly.  His goal is to prevent the Heartsteel from smashing into rocks and, you know, killing everyone.  Erik would be really fucking pissed if that happened, and the bastard is probably just lying around _waiting_ to become part of the legion of the undead.  He probably already sort of eats human hearts anyway.

“You could shoot him,” Logan suggests, keeping alert eyes on the sensors around him.

Scott gives him a sour look.  “Mom would kill me.”

“I’m sure she’s not that scary.”

“You don’t know our mom,” Alex mumbles.

Logan grins, slow and wide and filthy.  “Yeah I do.”

He gets a kick to the shin for his efforts and that is gonna be a nasty fucking bruise, but whatever, he has no regrets.  A day in which you can somehow pull off a _your mom_ joke, even indirectly, is a day worth living through.

The bridge is currently on skeleton-crew duty.  Technically Scott and Logan aren’t part of the skeleton crew shift, since they’re main crew, but with the navigation requiring so much attention neither of them are comfortable leaving it to the junior officers.

That, and Erik would probably fucking kill them if they did because he’s an anal asshole, pun probably intended.

The conspicuous lack of Erik’s grim presence overseeing everything for himself can be explained by how he finally dragged himself to bed after McCoy had stormed into the bridge and waved a hypospray in his face like if he didn’t walk his flat ass to his quarters and dump himself in bed pronto, McCoy would be running experiments on his eyeball, detached from his skull.  McCoy is a skinny little shit but he can get fucking scary at times, so it isn’t like anybody’s judging Erik for capitulating.  The CMO probably gets that from his father’s side because every McCoy Logan has ever met is creepy as shit when you mess with what they believe are their duties.  On the other hand, at least this McCoy isn’t an argumentative pissy little guy with an attitude the size of Third Earth, so whatever.  They lucked out.

“What’s gonna happen, you know, once we get Xavier back?”

Logan eyeballs Alex.  He’s young, even for a Legionnaire, and looks even more fresh-faced and boyish than the rest of the poor little roaches.  Alex isn’t a bad kid, though he does have the trademark Summers Shitty Attitude, poor sod, but Logan likes him when he’s quiet, despite himself.  Alex is looking at his brother in an odd way Logan hasn’t seen before, and fuck, it takes him a minute to figure out Alex wants his big bro to reassure him.

Barking up the wrong fucking tree, Jesus _Christ_.

It’s at times like these that Logan remembers that fuck, this ship, this crew, are all just a bunch of misfits and broken little kids, the ugly ducklings of Starfleet who would never have made it within the ranks if Erik and Charles weren’t as broken and bent out of shape as them.  It’s sort of difficult to see the talent through the dirty little windows, and most Starfleet commanders look for cleaner houses.

Erik just fucking broke the windows, the psychopath.

Scott doesn’t lift his eyes from his screen, but his shoulders have gone tense.  There’s something stiff down the line of his spine—not resentment, not exactly, but maybe worry.  Logan and Scott would follow Erik and Charles to the ends of the galaxy and beyond and back, and their own lives are worth shit to them, sure, but Alex—well, Alex is a young kid with a promising future.  Scott had put some effort into disassociating his kid brother from his own miserable track record, and now, as it turned out, they’re stuck in the same boat drifting up shit-creek and without a paddle together.

So yeah.  Scott would give his life for Charles like _this_.  His baby brother’s life, well.  That’s another matter entirely, ain’t it?

But Scott won’t fucking say it out loud, because that isn’t like Scott.  He whines and mumbles and growls and everything is a struggle with him and he’s difficult about stupid stuff like which side he wants his toast buttered, and no that is not a euphemism, fuck you, but when push comes to shove and shit is important, he goes fucking mute.  Logan’s still somewhat surprised by the little scene Scott had caused earlier, trying to kick Alex and his buddy off the fucking ship when Erik had given everyone the chance to bail.  That had been a large deviation from the norm but now it looks like he’s right back to his usual.

So yeah.  Fucked up.

“No point in thinking about that now, kid,” Logan says quietly.  “We’ll burn that bridge when we get there.”

“That’s not how the saying goes,” Alex says, frowning.

“It is if I say so, plebe, where are your manners, chain of command, etcetera etcetera?”

Scott glances at him.  “That was weak.”

“I’m busy, insult your own brother.”

Scott leans back in his chair and rubs harshly at his face with both hands for a moment.  Out of the corner of his eye Logan can see his chest swell with a breath, as deep as it can go.  It stays there for a moment, like Scott is trying to find some sort of answer inside his own lungs to spit back up to his brother’s face.  He comes up empty-handed, in the end, letting the air back out in a long sigh.

He lets his hands fall heavily to his lap and shakes his head, eyes fixed again on the gloss of his screen.  Foreign objects all around and no sense of direction, with nothing but an elusive ion trail that points to no direction that makes any sense.

This isn’t exactly what one expects when one applies for Starfleet, Logan thinks wryly.  You gotta hand it to Erik and Charles, they sure can spice up life.

Scott shrugs his shoulders briefly.

“We come back as conquering heroes or…” Here he hesitates, eyes turning to Logan, clear and troubled.

“Or we come back as deserting criminals and get our asses court-martialed five ways to the Milky Way,” Logan supplies helpfully.  “What’s left of the Milky Way.  Whatever.”

He waves a hand, too tired even to be angry or pretend to be angry.  It feels like they’re constantly scratching at the Nyrulian’s heels and never gaining any ground.  It’s grueling and exhausting.  They _will_ get Charles back, it’s not a question of _if_ , but Logan is starting to see the toll of constant stress on the crew and on himself, on his own too-long shifts and restlessly sleepless nights.  No one’s stretching himself further than Erik, but fuck, Erik’s a fucking drone whose sole reason for continued existence is Charles.

And what an apt fucking description, actually.

Logan scoffs loudly.

“Whatever,” he says dismissively.  “I’m not built to fail, losers.  Stop thinking about what we’ll do afterwards and think about what we’re fucking doing for snacks, because man, I’m hungry enough to eat a Saturnian slug.”

The Summers brothers pull identical expressions of revulsion and don’t you know it, sometimes they actually _do_ fucking look alike.  Logan makes a mental note to bring this up to Scott the next time he really wants to piss him off—not like it’s hard to anyway.

Then Alex blinks.  “Is that a comm light?”

“Yeah.”   Scott glances disinterestedly at the blinking little light above the comm console.  “It’s the Ionstar.”

“Should you, uh—take that?”

“Nah.”  Scott stretches his neck to get the kinks out and poses his hands back on the charting screen. “They don’t have anything interesting to say.”

“I thought fucking Stark was supposed to be throwing them off our trail anyway,” Logan mutters, tweaking their course just a little.  By his estimate they’re making good time despite having not jumped to warp, what with Raven in full Mystique Mode.  She’s disguised them as a Nyrulian ship, of course; black with a long, narrow body and sharp wing-like structures sweeping out along the sides, along with a bulbous head that Logan figures usually belongs to the bridge and six huge engine turbines at the back.  Logan has no idea how Raven makes all of their shit fit into a completely different ship structure and still appear legitimate, but he’s not about to start questioning her now.

Come to think of it, who even _knows_ how legitimate they actually look, because the last time they’d done this, Charles had already blown up the Nyrulians who had captured him by the time the Heartsteel had arrived on the scene, and beyond that they hadn’t run into any other ships.

Logan decides that they’ll jump that hurdle when they get to it.

“He is,” Scott snaps, and what the fuck, is that a defensive tone Logan detects?  It stands to fucking reason since Scott was a total Stark fanboy back in their Academy days—not so much in the engineering department, but anytime Stark started talking tech Scott would get this fucking ridiculous starry-eyed look on his face and fall all over himself just to chime in every now and then.  Scott vehemently denies this and probably will till his goddamn deathbed, but Logan knows what he remembers and remembers what he knows.

“Then why the fuck is Fury still trying to catch our goddam answering machine?” Logan asks pleasantly.

“ _Answering machine_?” Alex asks dubiously.  “What the hell is this, the 1990s on First Earth?”

“Believe it or not you can still make a fucking transmission without having exact coordinates, dumbass,” Scott sneers, ignoring his brother.  “Stark can cover our asses completely and Fury can still call to say ‘yo, where you motherfuckers at?’”

Logan sort of has to give him points for the spot-on impression of Fury’s beautiful dulcet tones.

“If we do answer, though, it’ll give Fury a better shot at tracking us so it’s better to just ignore it,” Scott adds, and glances up to give his brother a look.  “Don’t you have better things to be doing?  Polishing the decks?  Polishing my shoes?  Polishing—”

Raven’s sensors light up, a bright neon blaze in the otherwise dim lighting they’ve currently got going on for this technically-midnight shift while several alerts begin to sound, so it takes Logan a few vital seconds to clear his vision of tiny black spots.  By the time he does, everyone left on the bridge is on their feet, staring at the main screen display in various shades of terror—that is to say, white as paper when it was still around.  Logan weighs the pros and cons of not actually looking.

“Oh my god,” Alex whispers.

Logan looks.

At first, he doesn’t quite believe either, but there you fucking go, it’s right fucking there.  It shouldn’t be as surprising as it is, although maybe _surprising_ isn’t the right word.  Horrifying.  Terrifying.

Dooming.

“Raven, get the Commander,” he distantly hears himself say into the silence.  “He needs to see this.”

 

X

 

It’s like a switch flicking on after a long period of disuse.

One look at his stepfather is the only spark his toxic, oily fear needs to ignite into anger, liquid fire burning hotter than a dying star searing through him instantly in the split second it takes for Charles to take in the sight of Kurt Marko stepping away from the floor-length window that covers one entire wall and coming to stand at the edge of a huge, oval table surrounded by ten evenly-spaced chairs.  It looks like a war room, a meeting place for generals to organize their troops; the table itself is lit up with a constantly shifting hologram hovering over its surface, tiny ships moving in and out of the marked grids, depicting the ebb and flow of maneuvers that Charles currently has no eyes for, staring instead at the man responsible for all of this.

“You’re not my father,” Charles says when his voice comes back, tight and controlled and still so angry.  He’s dimly surprised that he’s not shouting.  He wants to shout, he wants to scream and throw things, wants to wrestle a blaster from one of the Nyrulians and blow the entire room to hell—further, because hell is too good for anyone or anything on this godforsaken ship—but instead all he does is remain frozen in place, wave after wave of acidic anger rolling through his entire body.

It’s refreshing, to feel something different from the constant fear that’s been eating away at him for what feels like centuries.  It’s a breath of fresh air and it revitalizes him, which up until now he hadn’t thought possible, as it gives him the brutal clarity he needs to stand up straighter and align his thoughts into something more like his usual whipcord sharpness as the fog of fear that’s been permeating his mind is burned away by his anger, much like a blazing sun piercing through clouds.

Kurt sighs.  “Leave us,” he says to the Nyrulians and they comply, stepping back into the elevator silently, only the hiss of the door sliding shut marking their departure. 

Kurt doesn’t say anything else, studying Charles carefully.  Were Charles in a better state of mind he would note that Marko Senior looks tired and worn, stress-eaten and stretched thin despite his usual display of wealth and power.  His suit is one-of-a-kind and carefully pressed but hangs too loosely on his frame, and his usually artfully greased hair is now only greasy, unkempt in more of an unfashionable way.  Gone is the swaggering, haughty man Charles last saw on Third Earth, at the Starfleet Academy’s main campus on the day Erik punched him square in the face.  Here and now he has the look of a man who has gone in over his head and has only just begun to realize it.

“Where’s my mother?” Charles asks through gritted teeth, his fists clenched down in front of him where they’re still cuffed together, because if he allows himself to even begin to think of what it means to see Kurt Marko standing here on a Nyrulian ship after everything that has happened he thinks he might scream, long and loud and wordless because there are no words foul enough in any dialect of this galaxy or the next one that could summarize this man succinctly.

Better to stick with a topic that apparently means very little, in the grand scheme of things, for Kurt seems startled as if it’s the last subject he thought Charles would bring up when he answers, “On Corellia of course.  Probably drunk out of her mind, you know how your mother is, never mind the time of day.  Charles—”

“So you didn’t involve her.  She’s not a part of this.”

“You have to understand, son, I—”

“I’m _not your son_ ,” Charles says loudly, and it’s a small wonder that his voice isn’t trembling because the whole rest of his body is vibrating with anger swirling wildly in his gut.

Two hands clap down on his shoulders from behind and Charles starts, twisting around as much as he can to see who’s snuck up behind him and comes face-to-face with Cain. 

He looms over Charles, grinning when Charles falls still again.  Every last inch of his bulk exudes smug satisfaction, his sallow face left contorted by his version of a grin, his piggy little eyes glittering like tiny gemstones set in a craggy, weathered rock.  “Shame you see it like that, Charlie,” he says, squeezing his shoulders too tightly in the parody of a friendly massage, “I always considered you like a brother.”

“How did you escape the Strontium?” Charles asks without actually meaning to, running on autopilot in the face of the only person in the entire Universe he could possibly hate more than Kurt Marko.

“Dad,” Cain says with a smirk, nodding to his father who watches them both with a pallid, grey face.  “He hired a guy.  Perhaps you know him.”

“Victor Creed,” Charles says faintly.

“That’s the one,” Cain says, as if he already doesn’t fucking know what exactly Victor Creed has done to Charles, “he’s something else, isn’t he?  He got me out of there no problem.  I hear _you’re_ the one being blamed, is that right?  Thanks for the help, little bro, I really appreciate it.  But then we wanted to make it a real family reunion so we sent him after you.  Well.  Tony Stark was top priority because our buddies here wanted a word with him, but you were next on the list and look at us now—you practically fell into Creed’s lap, so we don’t even need Stark after all.”

Charles rips himself free from Cain’s grasp, limping as best as he can away from the monster, because he certainly can’t be called human.  He doesn’t make it very far before his knee starts to protest once again, making it very clear that while the Nyrulians had healed him they’d still made sure that he wouldn’t be mobile enough to move very fast, but at least Cain is no longer touching him and Charles feels like he has room to breathe again.  Just being in proximity to Cain was like having his throat slowly close up bit by bit, a slow suffocation while he feels like he’s unraveling, corroded by Cain’s awful poison.

Fortunately Cain doesn’t follow after him, letting him go.  Charles ends up beside the table two chairs away from where Kurt stands, and he grips the edge of the cool glass reflexively with both hands to steady himself.  His fingers pass through the edges of the hologram grid, distorting the lines where they lay.  It hadn’t been the Nyrulians who’d sent Creed after him.  It’d been Kurt and Cain Marko.

“Creed wasn’t supposed to harm you,” Kurt says and when Charles glances up at him, he’s looking down at Charles’ bad leg with a grimace.  “You weren’t to be touched, besides any necessary roughness needed to capture you in the first place.  We knew you wouldn’t come willingly.”

Just like that, his anger is back and Charles is glad.  “Of course not,” he snaps, “do you have any idea what he’s done—”

“We had them fix you up as much as they were willing to, of course,” Kurt continues calmly, as if they’re discussing the weather.  “Creed gave us a report on your escape attempt, and then something about you crushing one of his Taxxons with some of his cargo—”

“Fuck the Taxxon,” Charles snarls, taking a step forward, his knee giving another twinge, “you sent a _bounty hunter_ after me and he—he—he killed—” He can’t even say it, not in front of these two traitors, scum who see him as nothing more than a useful game piece, who cannot possibly begin to fathom what Creed has taken away from him.

“Ah, the War-Prince,” Kurt says blithely.  He has his businessman face on, with false sincerity that only lasts as far as the first layer of his epidermis.  “Creed mentioned him as well.  An unfortunate casualty.  I’m sure he was an admirable commander.”

“He was a thousand times the man you’ll ever be,” Charles chokes out, his grief welling up so potent and heavy that it’s amazing it’s not visible for the Markos to see, floating on air like deadly fumes.  Erik is dead, and if Victor Creed was the gun then Kurt and Cain Marko together were the hand that pulled the trigger.

And Charles, Charles himself is the phaser blast itself responsible for leaving Erik bleeding out on the deck because he’s just as guilty—Erik never would have even come into contact with Victor Creed if it weren’t for him, and how he’d convinced Erik to help find Tony.  But a lot of things wouldn’t have happened if it weren’t for him, Charles knows, so he won’t blame himself.  Erik wouldn’t want him to.  He’d be furious at even the hint of a suggestion.

The thought almost, _almost_ lessens the grief of loss for a moment, but Charles doesn’t allow the feeling to linger.  He can’t afford to hold onto anything anymore.

Cain snorts loudly but Kurt chooses to ignore Charles’ last statement.  “The fact of the matter is that you’re finally here.  The Nyrulians wanted to move straight to a more…forceful…line of questioning, but I persuaded them that you could be reasoned with.”

“Spare me the bullshit,” Charles says flatly, “I blew up one of their ships, they’re going to kill me once you’re finished with me.”

Kurt glances away, only for a split second, but it’s a dead giveaway that Charles is right.  Charles isn’t surprised.  He knows he’s been brought here to die.  Behind him Cain chuckles, low and soft, and Charles is conscious of his stepbrother’s hulking mass moving closer, hyperaware of Cain’s presence even as he keeps his gaze leveled on Kurt.  Let Kurt look at him, he thinks fiercely, let Kurt look at someone who he still calls _son_ and perhaps feel at least one tiny scrap of remorse, one miniscule seed of guilt before he hands him over to Nyrulians.  Charles hopes it takes root and rots.

“I can assure you that your willingness to cooperate will directly affect the circumstances of your execution,” Kurt says into the silence.  His hands move restlessly, skittering across the surface of the holotable in a short, nervous tattoo, making the tiny ships zooming over the surface flicker.  “It will be less painful for you if you give us what we want.”

“And you hold sway over the Nyrulians?” Charles says, still flat to make his obvious disbelief clear.  He decides to hold with his continued, feigned ignorance for now.  Let Kurt sweat it out for as long as possible before Charles reveals that their hopes of retrieving what they want—the Heartsteel’s Keflar tech—died along with Erik.  “I have no reason to give you _anything_ you want, and you know it.”

Kurt’s expression twists into something terrible and ugly but Cain’s meaty fingers close around Charles’ forearm, squeezing until bone starts to grind and Charles makes a small sound of pain despite himself, twisting vainly in Cain’s grip.  “Let me show you something, Charlie,” Cain says, ignoring Charles’ struggles and dragging him forward away from the holotable and towards the wide window.

“Let go of me,” Charles hisses, stumbling as Cain doesn’t allow for his injured knee and drags him too fast for Charles to keep up without wrenching his leg.

Cain only laughs, and doesn’t let go until they’re right in front of the window, giving Charles an extra shove forward so that he has to catch himself on the thick glass to keep from hitting his face.  “You think you’re tough but you can’t even handle a little roughhousing?  They’re gonna make you scream, Charlie, and once they bleed every last bit of information they want out of you, they’re gonna throw you in _there_.”

Charles straightens slowly, redistributing his weight onto his good leg.  He has no compunctions that when it comes down to it the Nyrulians will break him with their torture, and he’ll scream and beg for the end just like anyone else, but Cain doesn’t need to know that.  In lieu of answering, Charles looks out the window.  He had originally thought that they were on a ship and the brightness outside the window was merely the whiteness of hyperspace, but at first glance once his eyes adjust he instantly knows that he’d been very wrong. 

The room they’re standing in towers high above the surface of whatever planet or moon they’re on, giving him a panoramic view of the rocky, barren desert that stretches on for miles as far as he can see, rock layers in red and orange and yellow and white shimmering under the heat of a single, fat sun that hangs low and huge in the sky.  The structure of the building itself is massive as far as he can tell and their tower has two twins, one on either side, spiked and constructed of a strange, black metal that he has no name for, and reflects the sunlight strangely, and then he realizes it’s shipmetal—the same black metal the Nyrulians build their ships with has been used to construct this stark, desert fortress, and Charles would wonder to what end would this place exist if the majority of his attention had not honed in on what Cain actually wanted him to see.

It sits at the base of their tower but it is so massive in size that Charles doesn’t have to crane his neck to look down far enough to see.  It reminds him at once of the old First Earth Romans, and their primitive but mighty Colosseum where their primitive but fierce gladiators did battle.  Like First Earth’s Ancient Rome, the stadium is tall and round, with thousands of seats ringing the edges of the pit in the center and stacking up higher and higher, and even though they are empty now Charles can imagine them filled with Nyrulians, a veritable sea of shiny green heads and writhing tentacles.

“You’re on Geonosis,” Cain says beside him.  Instead of looking down below, his eyes are on Charles’ face, watching for his reaction.  “This is where the Nyrulians bring their prisoners who they deem worthy of execution.  See the pillars in the center?  Those chosen to die are strung up as offerings there, and then they unleash any number of the beasts they keep hungry and waiting below.  It’s a massacre.  You should _hear_ the cheers of the crowd when someone is torn to pieces, Charlie.”

“The Nyrulians do like showy executions,” Kurt admits, moving to stand on Charles’ other side so that Charles is framed by the Markos’ bulk.  “It’s crude, but that is their way.”

“So here’s your worth, Charlie,” Cain says, and Charles immediately recalls the last time Cain had spoken words similar to these, smirking at him from a hospital bed in the med bay of the Oh-Bee, “we’re going to ask you a few questions.  If you give us what we want, your death at least won’t be a public spectacle as the chewtoy of some alien monster.  But if you refuse, then there’s nothing Father or I can do to stop the Nyrulians from using you as live bait.”  He leans down so that his mouth is level with Charles’ ear.  “I’ve seen the monster they have picked out for you,” he breathes, bleeding smug satisfaction into the scant space left between them, “your death will not be swift.”

Charles keeps his gaze forward, but he’s no longer looking at the stadium.  Instead he studies the glass in front of him, looking past his own reflection.  It’s thick—too thick to break by throwing something, but one good hit from a blaster would shatter it instantly.  This place was built sturdily to hold everyone in, but it was not built to withstand an all-out attack from the outside.  And why would it be?  The Nyrulians have nothing to fear on this side of the galaxy.  _Their_ side of the galaxy.

It’s odd, in a way, for such an advanced race to still hold traditions like public execution.  Charles wonders what makes the Nyrulians hate so deeply, and so fiercely, that has carried over into enjoying watching people die.

“Charles.”  Kurt lays a hand on his shoulder, heavy as his voice.  An act, Charles knows now.  Kurt Marko is no more remorseful than Cain is thin.  “What’s it going to be?”

“How much are you willing to pay, Charlie?” Cain taunts from his other side.  “Pay up, I say.  Pay your way to a nice, quiet death in the bowels of the tower.  You wouldn’t last five _seconds_ in the pit—”

Charles laughs.  It’s more of a short, sharp breath he pushes out of his lungs and mouth than a sound of mirth, but it’s enough to give Cain reason to pause.  Charles shrugs Kurt’s hand off his shoulder and takes a step back away from the window so he can take them both in at once, looking from one Marko to the other without bothering to hide his contempt.

“Is this meant to scare me?” Charles asks, squeezing his hands into fists once again because he can and it feels good, even if he’ll never get the chance to use them.  Erik punched Kurt in the face so many years ago and was always of the opinion that one day Charles would give Kurt a matching shiner of his own, but that will have to be something else that never becomes reality.  Charles can accept that.  He knows from personal experience that words are just as effectual as fists when it comes to leaving bruises.  “Is that all?”

Cain is shocked into silence, Charles’ response clearly not the one he’s been waiting for.  Kurt, however, begins, “Charles—”

“I have nothing to lose,” Charles says, staring them both down unblinkingly so as to drive his point brutally home, “you bloody _cowards_ have taken every last thing I ever could have cared about from me, so there is nothing, _nothing_ left that you could threaten me with or do to me that would truly frighten me any longer.  Has it sunk it yet?”  He looks back and forth between them again.  “You’re going to have me killed?  _Do_ it.  What does it matter to _me_ how you have it done?  It doesn’t.  Either way I’m going to die.  Do you understand?  _I have nothing left to lose_.”

Charles pauses for breath, panting slightly as he watches Cain swell up with rage and Kurt turn an interesting shade of white as he tries and fails to conceal his own panic.  Charles would know, he’s familiar with panic.  His own has melted away, burned by anger, and it’s that anger which Charles uses to keep himself steady, emptily defiant in the face of his own destruction.

He thought that he would be smug, and laugh in their faces when he revealed what Tony would call his last big Fuck You to the Markos and Nyrulians, when he told them of Edgar’s last joke. 

But strangely Charles has never felt less smug in his entire life as he says coolly, “Though it appears to me that you both have a _lot_ to lose, don’t you?”

 

X

 

Erik knows he’s only attained sleep in the first place because McCoy did end up using his hypospray, or at least one that would keep Erik knocked out for a few hours, once Erik confessed that there was absolutely no possibility of him falling asleep on his own.  McCoy had seemed all too pleased to put him down, which might be something to look into at a later date if they aren’t all dead by then.

His sleep is blissfully dreamless, thankfully, so McCoy must’ve even used the heavy stuff, but is abruptly cut short when Raven rouses him from what has to be his REM cycle because Erik is so disorientated upon cracking open his eyes that he starts to reach for Charles.

His hand curls into a fist when his fingers meet nothing but empty air and sheets, and Erik sits up so fast that his entire room spins around him for a few nauseating moments, his entire torso giving a very painful wrench.  He hasn’t even been waking up beside Charles long enough in the first place to be able to automatically reach out for him in his half-awake moments, why start now?  He slams his fist down once against the mattress, for all the good it does.  He looked Charles in the eye and swore that everything would be alright.  He should’ve vowed to deliver him an entire galaxy instead, for the same level of complete folly.

“Sir,” Raven says after she has probably gauged that he’s no longer more asleep than awake and he can actually keep his eyes open despite feeling like they’ve been glued shut during his sleep, “communication from the bridge.”

“Commander,” Logan’s voice comes through once Erik has given Raven a nod.  The Helmsman sounds—not afraid, Logan is never afraid, but subdued.

…Logan is never subdued.

“What is it?”  Erik’s voice comes out hoarse and scratchy to his own ears.  Hopefully Raven is clearing up the bridge’s audio on him at least a little.  They don’t need to hear how exhausted or in pain he is, though they probably already know.

“You should see this,” Logan says grimly after a short pause.  The rest of the bridge is silent beneath his voice, not even Scott is chiming in.

“Patch it through to me,” Erik says.  In an aside, he orders, “Raven, give me a view.”

Raven opens a hologram for him, projecting it over his bed in front of him as she transmits the view out of the bridge’s main screen to Erik’s quarters.  Nyrulian space stretches out wide over his sheets, stars and their vaguely mapped systems dotting the air here and there, growing more defined as Raven and Scott slowly update her charts with data as they continue straight down the line Tony Stark has made for them to follow after Creed’s ship.

That is the background.  In the foreground are ships; black with a long, narrow body and sharp wing-like structures sweeping out along the sides, with a bulbous bridgehead and six huge engine turbines at the back.  They sit in tight formation of one long, continuous line of at first glance Erik estimates at least fifty— _fifty_ ships, spaced equally apart like bricks in a wall.

Then the second line drops out of warp.

Erik blinks and they’re there, jetting neatly into place behind the first line of ships all in one smooth motion that must have been practiced hundreds of times over for the effect it gives now, perfectly synchronized across the entire line without a single hitch in the formation.  Fifty more ships.

One hundred Nyrulian warships, all within a few thousand scant light years from Earth Empire space.


	12. I'm here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more chapter plus an epilogue left to go!
> 
> From here on out until the end of the fic, **the following warnings do apply:** blood, gore, allusions to torture, and character death. If you still want to read the fic but are thrown off by any of these things, please don't hesitate to [message Pan](http://pangeasplits.tumblr.com/ask), preferably off anon to avoid spoiling everyone else, and we can talk about it. We want everyone to be able to enjoy the story, all action and drama included, without necessarily being stressed out about it. :) We do love you all!
> 
> For more than one reason, we have _Star Wars_ in particular to thank for all the inspiration.

Charles Xavier and Erik Lehnsherr each respectively pass Tactics III with flying colors despite the widely-known difficulty of the course and no one is surprised, least of all their distinguished instructor who stares at them both flatly over the tops of their final exam papers and signs their asses up for the Master Tactician Exam.

The dreaded MTE has an overwhelming pass rate of 5%, and most Academy plebes will say that that’s only once every 15 years and that the normal pass rate for all the other years is 1% and never mind the fact that this is statistically impossible. The fact of the matter remains that hardly anyone ever passes the MTE and is awarded with the special rank of Master Tactician, so Master Tacticians themselves are few and far between.

Lehnsherr and Xavier are administered the exam on the same day at the same time in different rooms across the Academy’s campus from one another, each proctored by no less than three Academy instructors. Uncannily enough, records will later show that they finish the exam within five minutes of each other after just about four and a half hours, which is an average finishing time when the major outlier of Steve Rogers—one hour and fifty-three minutes—is ignored.

It takes a week for each exam to be fairly judged and graded, picked over meticulously by all six of the proctors, so it is two full weeks before Lehnsherr and Xavier are summoned to their instructor’s office to discuss their results one at a time.

Lehnsherr misses the rank by six percentiles—no dice, but still pretty fucking brilliant and would certainly qualify him as one of the Fleet’s top existing tacticians even without the special rank attached to his name. It’s evident at once, however, that he’s not crushed by the news in the slightest, rolling his shoulders in a small shrug of _oh well_.

“The rank would have been nice,” he admits, “but it’s not like I need it.”

Whatever the hell that means, you jumped up little shit.

“Congratulations, then, you’re not getting it. Send Xavier in and don’t let the door hit your flat ass on the way out.”

Xavier enters moments later, looking as if he’s trying very hard not to appear nervous and failing spectacularly. There’s no goddamn _Lehnsherr_ to sit next to him now, which tends to have a calming, steadying effect on him for who the fuck even knows the reason why. It’s like Lehnsherr is his sun, and without his constant, _sunny_ —yeah, right—disposition, Xavier wilts.

The silence is allowed to stew for a few painful minutes, during which Xavier fidgets and looks increasingly like deer in the headlights, before the instructor finally decides to show a little mercy.

“You’ve passed my damn test by three entire percentiles.” The way the MTE is scored, there is a ten percent window above the minimum mark required to pass where all passing scores tend to fall. Xavier has scored three percentiles _above_ that window, which means not only did he pass the exam, he wiped the goddamn floor with it. It’s one of the highest scores ever achieved on the MTE—never mind fucking Rogers and his seventeen.

Xavier blinks in shock. “O-oh.”

“You didn’t expect to.”

“No,” Xavier answers, very honest, “I didn’t, sir. Neither of us did.”

“Lehnsherr didn’t pass.” It is technically against several directives of the Academy’s regulations to reveal exam scores and all other academic information to anyone besides the plebe they pertain to, but an exception is probably nothing in this case. It’s been clear since day one of the term that Lehnsherr and Xavier have already had an entire wedding, reception, honeymoon, and possibly two children all without actually realizing it themselves. Idiots.

Xavier’s eyes are wide in shock, clear and earnest. “He didn’t? I thought that he—” He stops, contemplative. “Out of the two of us, I expected him to have a higher chance of passing.”

“Well, you thought wrong. We’re going to have to rearrange your track, we don’t normally get someone qualified as a Master Tactician very often so you’ll have to excuse us if we take full advantage of—”

“Sir,” Xavier has the balls to interrupt, though he speaks slowly and politely, obviously thinking very hard, “it’s a great honor to have passed your exam, but I’m afraid that I must respectfully decline the rank of Master Tactician.”

Silence.

The instructor steeples his fingers and leans forward across his desk. “I expect you’ll reconsider. Starfleet is in need of tacticians of your caliber. I don’t say this lightly, Xavier. Changing your major track now will take you places that you can’t even imagine upon your graduation.”

Xavier’s lips quirk in a small, apologetic smile. “And that’s why I must decline, sir. I’m sorry. I’ve already imagined where I’d like to be upon my graduation.”

Nick Fury resists the urge to sigh and thinks grudgingly of Lehnsherr. “Yes,” he says flatly, “I imagine you have.”

 

X

 

Steve Rogers sits in a blacked-out communications room, isolated from the circuits of the Ionstar by staggering firewalls.

He’s managed to convince Fury, through no small amount of groveling and ample promises of obedience, that he must have this conversation, must have it calmly, and must have it alone. He should have picked up the link about half a minute ago, when he sat down.

He stares at the flashing red light and tries to still the slight tremor of his hands. They stop, feel even, but then start shaking again. He stares at the light and thinks he should pick up the link. His throat feels as dry as the desert.

The thing that is curling, coiling tense and cold at the bottom of his stomach, should feel like concern for Charles, and a part of it _is_ concern for his friend. But most of it, if he’s honest with himself, and Steve Rogers never quite got the trick of lying—most of it is dread.

He sits straighter in the chair, inhales deeply through a vaguely aching throat, holds in the air. Contracts the muscles of his abdomen and ribcage to release the air in a controlled and measured breath. _When the breath ends_ , his mother says in his head, _you’ll be calm_.

He is calm. He reaches over and picks up the link, and the screen is immediately full with Tony’s haggard, ashen face.

It’s like a blow to the stomach.

“ _Tony_ ,” he rasps, hands rising in an abortive motion to reach for him before he remembers he’s only in the screen. “Tony—you look terrible.”

“Thank you very fucking much,” retorts Tony, eyes gleaming.

Steve feels like a spear’s gone through his chest. His breath catches pained in his throat, and he swallows again.

“Walk me through what you know.”

“Charles is in a lot of fucking trouble,” Tony says immediately. “He didn’t just blow up a ship with a Nyrulian, he blew up a ship with _a_ Nyrulian, okay, get what I’m saying, and it’s fucked because they want to kill him now but they want to like, make it really fucking painful, yeah? So there’s this fucked up _planet_ , and they’re gonna fix him up and then drop him to the lions, this is not a euphemism, Steve, I am serious.”

There’s something bittersweet and sad twisting in Steve’s chest, and it’s the knowledge that after years of unfathomable distance and so much hurt splintering inside him, he can still listen to Tony and translate his ranting into hard data that he can use.

“Where is this planet?”

“You’ll never get there in time! I need you to use the Ionstar’s long-range sensors to tell Lehnsherr that he needs to haul ass to sector 13-CH of Nyrulian space and find that planet and get Charles out in one piece, preferably, though fuck, I’ll settle for alive.”

Tony looks wild and on the verge of collapsing. Steve can see the warning signs in his agitated twitching and the restless darting of his eyes across the screen, never fixing on anything. Part of that is clearly an attempt to avoid holding Steve’s gaze—and hell if that doesn’t feel like a knife to the gut—but a big part of it is escalating panic. Tony never panics in front of anyone but Steve, and it seems like he’d been limping along for a while before he could allow himself to dump all of this on Steve’s broader shoulders.

And Steve would take the weight—he’d take it gladly away from Tony, god, he wouldn’t ever leave Tony to deal with anything on his own—but he can’t let Tony collapse now, god-knows-how-many light years away.

“Tony,” he says evenly, because his hands are shaking but Tony is about to collapse, and he’s going to have to be the strong one for him, just like always. He hasn’t forgotten how to do that. “Tony, stop for a minute, okay? Breathe for a minute. Just breathe.”

“There’s no time—”

“ _Tony_. Breathe.”

Tony looks murderous for a second, rebellious and wild, but his eyes are wet and Steve can see how badly he’s shaking. Even early on in the friendship Tony had always trusted Steve with everything, asking questions but trusting Steve would always, somehow, fix whatever had gone wrong, take him to a safe shore through whatever storm. That was something Steve had always wanted to, _still_ wants to do. For a moment his heart clenches on the idea that maybe Tony doesn’t trust him like that anymore—not after he already failed him once, not after he let him go—but then he pushes through that suffocating panic because he _has_ to, because he’s _needed_.

Tony closes his eyes and breathes in, holds his breath. Steve counts in his head; it takes twelve breaths for Tony to feel in control of himself. That’s not that bad; on a really bad day, it can take him up to fifteen minutes of breathing.

“Alright,” he says finally, voice steady. He finds the strength to look at Steve in the eyes, and god, Steve wishes things weren’t so broken between them and that it hadn’t been years of distance between now and the last time he saw Tony’s expressive hazel eyes.

Steve nods. “The Heartsteel is not responding to hails and is impervious to communications hacks.”

“I can hack it.”

“Alright. But why would Lehnsherr listen to me? He doesn’t like me.”

“He doesn’t like anyone,” replies Tony blithely, and makes that puzzled little frown of his that suggests he can’t quite figure out human behavior, because you can’t recalibrate its equations. Despite the situation, Steve bites back a smile. “But he’ll listen to you because Charles listens to you and Lehnsherr’s his—really, really creepy—lapdog.”

“I doubt that, but I’m willing to try. Can you triangulate us? Hack the Heartsteel from where you are, hook me in and patch me through?”

Tony worries his lower lip, eyes going distant with calculations. Steve is relieved, unbearably relieved, that even though all the hurt and the distance between them, this still feels familiar. Tony’s quirks and his eyes and his voice and the way he expects Steve to know what to do and not to argue when Tony knows what to do. This is still Tony and, somewhere deep and buried and broken, this is still them. What’s left of them.  

Steve feels a knot in his throat, a conglomeration of words that begin with an apology. But he can’t let them loose, can’t let them spill, because if he starts then inevitably one word will drag another one and he’ll end up asking the one thing he can’t ask, he’s too terrified to ask.

Steve always knew, they both always knew, that Tony would be the one to walk away. Because Tony walked away or he _pushed_ people away. That was what he did; he was used to people leaving, didn’t know how to fight to keep them. So they’d known, and they’d both thought that it would be Steve to hold on, that Steve would keep them together. That had always been his part, and he didn’t resent it; he liked to do it. He understood that Tony couldn’t, and from day one he’d always been willing to do the things Tony could not.

But then Tony had left. And Steve—hadn’t fought.

So the painful wreck in his throat starts with an apology and ends with a question he’s too scared to ask.

Finally Tony shakes his head in frustration.

“No, this ship—” he glances away from Steve to somewhere off-screen, cracking a smile. “It’s a good ship, Thor, buddy, pal, you’re a lifesaver, but this ship isn’t meant for high-powered encrypted communications. I need special equipment.”

Steve sees the glimpse of an opportunity and finds himself abruptly devoured by need. He takes a moment to control it and weight it against the right thing to do according to the circumstances. He doesn’t speak until he knows the two align.

“Come to the Ionstar,” he says firmly.

“What, no,” Tony sits back, frowning. “I’m not setting a foot in that thing, no way.”

“Tony, this ship is designed to have one of the most powerful hailing systems in the galaxy—”

“I know! I designed it!”

“Yes,” Steve says patiently. “You did. It’s the best, and we need the best to operate it.”

Tony drags a hand down his tired face, shoulders slumping.

Steve doesn’t rush to insist, he sits and waits for Tony to arrive at the conclusion he has already reached, on his own. He knows he will.

And he can’t trust himself to speak. Because after years of absence and cold and the uncertainty of not knowing where Tony is, if he’s alright, now he’s found a sliver of hope of getting Tony back within reach. In reach, in this same ship, where Steve will know that he’s safe.

Suddenly, Steve doesn’t think he can go another minute without knowing exactly where Tony is and that he’s being protected, and he’s terrified by the idea that Tony might think to refuse. And why not? Steve failed Tony in the only thing that really mattered, and now he’s asking Tony to trust him again. It’s not easy for Tony to forgive; it doesn’t come naturally to him like it does to Charles.

“It’ll take us about three hours to get there,” Tony says at last, voice low. His shoulders slump into a tired, defeated line. He looks exhausted and hurt and tiny. Steve’s stomach turns.

“Use them to sleep,” he suggests kindly. “You look like you need it, and once you’re here it’ll be a while before you can rest again.”

Tony nods listlessly. “What’re you gonna do?”

“I’m going to sit Fury down and convince him not to fire every photon torpedo in this ship against the Heartsteel once we locate it,” he says firmly. And then adds, because this is Tony, “Somehow.”

Tony snorts indelicately. “Good luck with that, Cap. See ya in three hours.”

“See you, Tony,” he murmurs, though Tony’s already cut the link.

Cap. Steve’s heart is in his mouth, beating wildly. Tony used to call him that when they were still together, affectionate and playful.

 The question is: _will you always hate me?_

 

X

 

Erik reaches the bridge in record time, the grogginess of sleep shaken off entirely as he nearly bursts through the elevator doors and crossing over to stand beside his chair where he stills, control reasserting itself inside him.

A lot of things are said about what happens a fraction of a second before you meet your death. Erik doesn’t have the patience or inclination to read works of fiction—he prefers to occupy his time reading actually helpful things that may benefit the course of his duty—but even he has absorbed some of the most poetic ways to describe it. Flashes. Strings of consciousness. You don’t have any time to regret or fear.

That is not what is happening to Erik now standing in the bridge of the Heartsteel in front of dozens of Nyrulian ships.

Fear sizes him up inside and solidifies like crystal across his chest, making breathing impossible, turning his ribs into a cage in which his lungs will not expand. Ice runs through his veins like cryogenic liquid, slithering up his pine to the nape of his neck where the hairs prickle and stand on end. He’s scared, yes, but most of all, the part that is bullshit, is that you don’t regret. You’re taught from day one of breathing that when your last breath runs out, you should have taken it without any lingering regrets concerning all the rest.

Erik regrets. He’s almost too scared to think but what he can manage is almost exclusively his crew, his crew, and Charles, and _I’m so sorry I brought you here_.

And then, just as abruptly as they appeared, the ships shift course and disappear in a trail of dispersing ion sparks.

The Heartsteel hangs frozen in space for a long moment, shocked into stillness.

Erik’s lungs expel what little air had been left inside him, and he can feel the stretching of his muscles when he managed to breathe in again. It feels like a gift.

He swallows and gestures at a wide-eyed and ashen-faced Scott. “Steady on course.” And if his voice is rougher than normal, the usually elegant motion of his hand abrupt, surely no one will fault him for it.

He steadies himself with another breath and straightens his spine, takes a turn about the bridge. His people are shaken up and unsettled, and he can’t blame them. He touches shoulders and brushes his hand down arms when he can see that they need him. He’s not as good at this as Charles is, doesn’t have that innate understanding of human emotion, that heartbreaking compassion, but he’s not completely clueless, either. And he can emulate it, in any case; he certainly loves his crew.

He returns to his chair and studies what little navigational information Scott and Logan have managed to decipher through the star-charting systems. For the next several hours until the alpha shifts is over, he devotes all of his attention to making sure his ship won’t crash into some random meteorite. There’s debris all over this space, and while most of it is insignificant in size and negligible, some can pose very real danger. Catastrophic damage to a propeller would almost certainly mean stranding and death.

There’s something else that is eating at him, though.

That Nyrulian fleet—those dozens of ships in united, coordinated motion.  Where are they going? There are no reports of any such movements by the Nyrulians for the last several years. Now Charles is gone, in their hands, and suddenly they’re moving?

Erik has a very bad sinking feeling about this. And it’s worse than just the idea that the Nyrulians may be rallying for an attack. It’s the fact that the Heartsteel is the only ship in the Fleet that knows, that has seen it, and communication is impossible unless he’s willing to reveal their location and endangering his whole crew. He knows Fury; if Fury thinks he can stop Erik from triggering a war by shooting him into sparkling bits of ship hovering aimlessly in space…he _will_ take that shot. No matter how Rogers twists himself over, Fury will always take that shot.

He has a responsibility towards his crew, towards Charles, but—he also has a responsibility towards the Fleet.

Towards humanity.

Ambivalence cleaves him in two, leaves him rudderless. The indecision paralyzes him, which is unusual enough to shake him. He gives Logan command of the bridge and goes to his private office, hoping the solitude will aid in clearing his mind.

Once the door has locked behind him, Erik takes a deep breath and runs his fingers through his hair, combing it back. He sighs the breath out in one steady, long stream, and takes a step towards his desk.

All at once his knees fold beneath him and he crashes jarringly to the floor, scraping his hands on the grip-treated surface of the deck. Utterly shocked, he realizes he’s shaking, faint tremors that buckle his legs and hunch his spine. He sinks back against the wall by the door, struggling to pull air thin and pained through his closed throat.

He can all too clearly see the Nyrulian fleet, dozens of gleaming aggressive ships laid out in front of him in battle formation. It’s not the first time he’s seen this—he remembers. Remembers the day his parents died along with Second Earth. He saw it then. And then—then the Keflars. The Nyrulians take _everything_.

They have Charles, they are mobilizing their fleet, Erik’s basically deserted Starfleet and made a criminal out of himself and all of the people aboard this ship, isolated the Heartsteel from all outside aid, and now—now he’s the only one that can save Starfleet, but doing so would mean to condemn this ship, and to abandon Charles to whatever atrocities the Nyrulians have in store for him.

He looks down at his hands. The sound that escapes his throat isn’t quite a sob—he’s not that far gone—but it can’t accurately be described as anything else, either.

Erik closes his eyes and clenches his fists. Drags in a breath through his burning throat, and uses it to steady himself. Somewhere out there ahead of him, Charles is also tired and hurt and scared, and he needs Erik. And he wouldn’t give up— _won’t_ give up. So Erik can’t either. He won’t.

“War Prince Lehnsherr,” Raven speaks up, tone calm and light as though she hasn’t basically just witnessed him having the beginnings of a panic attack. “Forgive me, but there seems to be a problem with—ication—hailin—Jarvis syst—”

Her voice cracks and stops. For the second time in such a short while, Erik goes cold as ice. Betrayal, then. That’s what it has come down to.

He picks himself up off the floor, legs still shakier and weaker than he’d ever like, and manages to make it over to the chair behind his desk just in time for the communications window to forcibly open itself, Raven flashing him an irritable warning in red just a second before.

“Lehnsherr—” Steve Rogers begins on the other end of the transmission, but then he stops. The Paladin looks different from the last time Erik saw him in the Heartsteel’s main conference room. For a man who has willingly surrendered himself for a number of transgressions, he looks even sharper and more focused than ever before. Someone has lit a fire beneath the Americium soldier, and Rogers blazes with it. “You’ve seen something.”

“Why has Stark hacked his way into my systems,” Erik says, harsh enough to cut crystal, though distantly his relief crashes like tumultuous waves against the jagged cliffs of his anger because here is his chance, his golden opportunity—the decision has been taken out of his hands. “I was under the distinct impression that this is the opposite of what he’d be doing for the Heartsteel.”

“Things have changed,” Rogers answers. “But first, tell me— _what have you seen_?”

“The Nyrulians have mobilized,” Erik says, leaning back into his chair wearily. His chest and ribs give an unfriendly twinge, a poignant reminder that he was bleeding out across a deck not too long ago. He’s coming apart at the seams, literally and metaphorically, and he has nothing left besides sheer willpower to hold himself together, and even that grows close to being entirely depleted. “We just encountered a legion of their fleet running drills. One hundred ships, fully armed.” He meets Rogers’ gaze through the projected screen, gunmetal grey holding comet blue. “We’re only a few hundred thousand light years from Earth Empire territory.”

Erik watches the implications hit Rogers and sink in. It’s not unlike watching a fisherman’s cast net hit the surface of the water before slowly but surely beginning to sink downwards into the depths. Rogers’ shoulders dip for half a moment but then roll up and set as the disgraced Paladin steels himself. At least one of them can, Erik thinks.

“Aren’t you glad Tony hacked your systems,” is all Rogers says, and Erik finds himself dipping his chin once in a nod because there’s no point in lying, not to Steve Rogers who can probably read it all over Erik’s face.

“Unfathomably.” He’s done his duty. He’s given the Fleet ample enough warning of just how far the recent Nyrulian aggression extends—they’re preparing for battle. They’re preparing for war.

If Steve Rogers is as good on his word as Stark swears he is, he’ll convince Fury to ready their own warships in time. It’s out of Erik’s hands now, in the broadest of senses. He’s taking the cheap way out, but at least they’ll never say that he left humanity high and dry completely.

“Lehnsherr—Erik.” Rogers is handling him now with the same wary care a historian would handle an old, archaic First Earth gun with real gunpowder and metal bullets, liable to discharge at any moment. “Tony’s got a lock on where they’ve taken Charles.”

Erik clamps ironclad bands down on every last iota of his emotions. He doesn’t need to ask. “They’re going to execute him.”

“No,” Rogers says, and at least he has the courtesy to not allow any kind of inflection to enter his voice, “they’re going to slaughter him.”

 

X

 

For a long, suspended moment they stare at each other, the silence thick and heavy. Charles doesn’t waver, his spine straight and stiff with his hands still clenched where they’re cuffed together in front of him and his shoulders back, even as his knee begins to ache from standing so long. He’s tired, he thinks distantly, trembling slightly with the effort of holding himself up, he’s so _tired_. If he could he would drop down to the floor and curl into himself like a collapsing star, tighter and tighter until he’s nothing, a black hole, an absence of all things, and maybe then he could finally, finally rest.

“Let’s cut to the chase,” Kurt says, recovering more quickly than Cain. He reaches up to adjust his tie, a nervous tick Charles recognizes from what feels like several hundred lifetimes ago, at high society functions on Corellia. “We know that the Heartsteel—” he pronounces her name all wrong, like two separate words when it should just be one, a single fluid and strong name and Charles could punch him for that if not for anything else, “—possesses unique Keflar tech. We also know that you are key to its programming.”

“Give it to us,” Cain says, taking a step forward. His eyes glint with the promise of barely-restrained violence, but it’s nothing Charles hasn’t seen before. He grew up with Cain. “Tell us how to extract it from your ship. Maybe you don’t give a fuck about yourself anymore,” he says, a new spark of cruelty alighting on his already hostile demeanor, “but I bet you’re still a bleeding heart for your crew.”

Charles takes a jagged, shaky breath that he doesn’t bother trying to hide. He doesn’t ask them to leave his crew out of this, the words stopping just behind his teeth on the tip of his tongue. The Heartsteel’s crew has been a part of this from the start but this, at least, he can do for them—protect them from his mistakes. His _and_ Erik’s mistakes, he allows, because it’s always been the two of them together.

“You can’t extract the tech from the Heartsteel,” he says, and he is calm, calm, _calm_ , “even if you were to kill the entire crew and take the ship. And that’s not what the Nyrulians want, isn’t it? They don’t want _one_ Earth Empire ship with Keflar technology. They want the tech so they can replicate it, don’t they, mass produce it and give it to every ship in their fleet. But that isn’t possible. Not anymore.”

Cain closes the small amount of distance that remains between them, one meaty hand once again closing around Charles’ upper arm and squeezing. “You’re lying,” he breathes, rage bubbling up like hot, viscous magma ready to explode outward at any second, “you’re lying to protect your crew. You’re the key, Heart and Steel, we _know_ about your stupid little code, Charlie, there’s no point in playing dumb. You were always bad at that anyway.” His fingers squeeze so tightly that Charles’ arm throbs painfully and he can’t help twisting vainly a little in Cain’s grasp.

“It’s true,” Charles grits out, glaring up at him, “there’s a two-part code to unlock the program. But you sorry _bastards_ got it backwards. If you know about the code, then you know that _steel_ has to be inputted first, which is easy enough. And you know that the second code _heart_ is the real means to transferring the program. You thought it was me.” He takes an unsteady breath, his heart beating loudly in his chest. “It makes sense, I suppose, to assume that a _bleeding heart_ like me would be the one. But you were wrong. I’m _steel_.” He casts his gaze over to Kurt, and he has no way to tell what his face looks like but whatever his expression holds causes Kurt to take a full step back. “Erik was _heart_. You killed him. You killed the Heartsteel’s heart.” _You killed **my** heart._

He has to force himself to take another breath, unaware that he’d stopped breathing at the thought in the first place.

There’s a silence. Kurt’s face has gone white again, and directly over him Cain breathes heavily, his grip so tight now that Charles’ arm is numb. Charles stares at Kurt unblinkingly, waits good and long for everything to sink in, for Kurt to fully realize just how much he’d screwed everything for himself up, before he speaks again, soft and measured.

“See you both down in the pit.”

Cain snarls, a low and guttural sound that’s barely human as he uses his grip on Charles’ arm to fling him forward with one huge burst of strength, finally letting go so that Charles goes flying, crashing into the thick glass of the window with a sickening crack. Charles lets himself fall with a groan, his vision whiting out for a moment as his knee gives a violent twinge where it’s been forcibly folded beneath him. Pain lances up his arm as blood flow returns and he isn’t even given time to fully process his pounding head before Cain is on him again, wrenching him around only to slam him back against the glass again, both hands wrapped around his throat.

Charles chokes, instinctive and automatic as his feet lift off the ground, sliding against the glass as Cain pushes him up, his vision swimming and blurring. He can’t get air but he doesn’t struggle, limp in Cain’s grip. It doesn’t matter.

“Put him down, Cain.” Kurt’s voice cuts through the fog rapidly overtaking Charles’ senses and suddenly he’s dropping, folding down to the floor into a heap at Cain’s feet.

He coughs, rough and deep, his chest heaving as he gasps for breath despite the fact that his throat feels like it’s on fire. He curls forward, huddling into himself to protect his throbbing knee in case Cain tries to kick him.

“He’s lying,” Kurt says, such an obvious attempt to convince not only Cain but himself as well that Charles would laugh if he even had half the energy required, “he just wants to unsettle us. We’ll give him to them. They’ll get the truth out of him.”

Cain snorts derisively and Charles tenses, waiting for a blow to fall but mercifully Cain’s hulking mass steps back instead. “I hope they break every bone in your body.” He spits to one side. “Twice.”

“Finish what you never could?” Charles asks blearily as he forces himself to sit up again, back against the glass. “I’m not lying. Maybe when they find out just how much you’ve failed them they’ll haul _you_ in for _questioning_.”

Kurt holds up a hand to forestall Cain when Marko Junior takes another step forward, gnashing his teeth. Kurt is still pale, his pasty face nearly sunken in with the beginnings of panic, but he has just that much more composure left than his son. “They’re on their way. They’ll be the ones to judge.”

“Why have you sided with them against the empire,” Charles asks despite himself, his voice thin and raspy, every word accented with the tangy taste of blood. He doesn’t ask to stall for time—he truly does not _comprehend_ how the Markos are working with the Nyrulians to facilitate the annihilation of galactic peace, and all for what? “You’re betraying your own _species_. Is the pay that good?”

“It doesn’t concern you,” Kurt answers coldly, his face a stone wall, “your part in this is over.”

Charles tips his head back against this glass, and though he doesn’t dare close his eyes and leave himself even that much more vulnerable, it’s a close thing. It _is_ over, he thinks wearily. Finally.

The elevator door across the room hisses open and Charles’ Nyrulian guards step out, gliding forward on their long, spindly legs. Charles doesn’t resist as they haul him back up to his feet with cold, clammy hands, effortlessly holding him up when he leans to one side in their grasp, unable to put weight on his knee again.

“He’s all yours,” Cain says with a vicious smirk, straight at Charles. The light from the window puts a feverish glow in his eyes and lends an eerie sheen to his pallid face. Charles has never given much thought to what pure, unfiltered evil must look like, but Cain might just come close, as Charles can only stare back at him blankly, mind completely empty as to what he could possibly say.

Kurt won’t even look at him.

“Visser Three shall not be kept waiting,” one of the Nyrulians says, the words hissing out from between writhing tentacles, mangled syllables as jarring as discordant chords. Nyrulians weren’t built for any of the common dialects, with tentacles hanging down from their faces, and Charles can’t help his shudder when one brushes across his cheek.

He closes his eyes when they take him back into the elevator, keeping them shut as they begin to descend. Charles knows just as well as anyone else that when a planet forms by planetesimals smashing into one another at high speeds, the heat of those collisions begin to partially melt the growing planet, thus sparking mass differentiation as lighter material remains near the surface while denser material sinks down to form the core of the new planet. In officer training school, this is their favorite metaphor to use for preparing yourself for _questioning under duress_.

Torture, Charles thinks to himself pointedly, allowing the word to float like a soap bubble across the surface of his mind even while he pulls everything else in deeper, sinking it all down to depths that hopefully not even the Nyrulians will be able to reach. This is reality, not officer training school. He wonders how long they’ll go until they decide he really _is_ telling the truth about how he really is useless to them.

Distantly, he watches the bubble pop, blinking out of existence.

He opens his eyes in time with the elevator doors, blinking rapidly against the pitch black darkness that greets him, a small square of light from the illuminated elevator betraying nothing about the room beyond.

It smells strange in here.

Charles is unceremoniously shoved forward out of the elevator, his knee folding beneath him again almost immediately. He drops down to the cold floor, cuffed hands braced in front of himself to keep from pitching all the way forward. Without further word, the doors slide shut behind him, leaving him in total darkness.

His eyes strain against the blackness, which is like a heavy weight pressing back against him, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end as he laboriously struggles to push himself back up to his feet, leaning back against the tightly sealed doors for support. He has no way to tell, but the room he’s in feels big.

His breaths are coming too fast and too sharp, uneven and loud in the charged, expectant silence of whatever hellhole they’ve left him in. Charles feels lightheaded and dizzy but he can’t seem to get his lungs to calm, a cold, creeping horror growing in his chest and expanding out into every last crevice of his being until he’s nearly hyperventilating where he stands plastered back against the doors, full-body tremors rattling his teeth and _why can’t he stop_ —

Something shifts in the darkness, and suddenly he knows.

He’s experienced this before on the Nyrulian ship he was held hostage on, where he’d breathed in the same noxious fumes that he inhales now. It does the same thing here, skewing his senses and swamping him with fear, threatening to drive him completely out of his mind with fear before they’ve even begun.

“Prince Charles Xavier,” says a deep, resounding voice from within the darkness, “you are here for one reason.”

“You don’t scare me,” Charles whispers jaggedly, even as his heart threatens to beat itself right out of his chest, his words riding a ragged sob as he repeats himself, louder this time, “You _don’t scare me_.”

More shifting in the darkness, and Charles doesn’t need to see in order to imagine what he knows are giant, thick tentacles uncoiling themselves to reach towards him, moving closer and closer at their own leisure pace, as any predator would when it knows its prey has nowhere to run.

“Fuck you,” Charles says to the darkness, gritting his teeth to keep them from chattering as he braces himself for the worst, “I _hate_ you, you won’t win, the Empire will never fall to the likes of you—” and he chokes back another sob as the pheromones in the air grow thicker and something begins to wrap around his middle, and he can’t help one last gasp, “Fuck you, fuck you, oh god, _Erik_ —”

 

X

 

Logan’s been around for a long damn time and has a past he’s not entirely proud of but it’s relatively safe to say that he’s seen some pretty fucked up shit in regards to what people—not just humans, not just aliens; _people_ , because they’re _all_ just people in the end—are capable of, in all corners of the galaxy, but this by far is one of the most fucked up things he’s seen to date.

“You’re not serious,” Scott snaps tersely, arms folded tightly against his chest. Logan can practically feel him vibrating with pent-up energy from how tense he’s holding himself. “We’re the best you’ve fucking got, you’re not just going to _leave us_ —”

“It’s not a request,” Erik interrupts him, voice brittle but no less sharp. He stands with one hip cocked slightly to the side to lean against the corner of his desk, a tiny break in his posture that’s more telling than the War-Prince probably likes.

Logan snorts, reaching up to adjust the unlit cigar clamped between his teeth. “Well it sure as shit ain’t an order.”

Erik’s gaze snaps to him, and for a moment they stare each other down, looking through the large, shimmering hologram of the planet Geonosis that Raven projects into the middle of Erik’s office. The planet rotates slowly on its axis, reminiscent of Saturn from the First Earth system with its giant rings of rocky debris circumventing its equator. After that the similarities end, according to the information packet that Stark has beamed over from Loki—and ain’t _that_ fucking interesting that that fucker’s still around—because where Saturn is comprised of gases, Geonosis is rock down to the core.

Logan holds Erik’s gaze unblinkingly. He knows that they’re both well aware of all the different things Erik could say in response to Logan’s direct and frank insubordination—but is it really, in this circumstance, where Erik has all but resigned his commission?

“I need you to stay on the ship,” Erik says, surprisingly steady for a man who looks centimeters away from losing his forced composure, “for exactly that reason. You _are_ my best. You have the best chance of getting the ship out if something goes wrong.”

“Of course something’s going to go wrong,” Scott snarls, flinging his arms out wide in pure frustration. His fingertips pass through the surface of the hologram planet, but Raven’s steady projection doesn’t falter. “Something always goes fucking wrong, this is _already_ going fucking wrong, and fuck _you_ if you think we’re just going to sit here on our asses while you go fuck things up more. You are goddamn _emotionally compromised_ , Erik, and yeah, I fucking said it since no one else around here wants to, but like fucking _hell_ we’re letting you land on the surface of that planet by yourself.”

“I won’t be by myself,” Erik answers, voice clipped, but at least he doesn’t try to contest the point about his mental state, because then Logan would have to cross his carefully drawn line and jump down Erik’s fucking throat. “I’m taking a small away team of volunteers.”

“Fantastic,” Scott says, and he might be laying on the sarcasm a little too thickly but far be it from Logan to stop him now, “we volunteer.”

“No.” Erik’s jaw is set, his eyes hard. As much as it pisses Logan off, he knows Erik’s made up his mind about this and won’t budge. “You’re staying on the ship. Both of you. I need you to monitor the frequencies, and at the slightest bit of trouble I need you to get _out_.”

“You fucking asked us to follow you all this way,” Scott snarls, “and then you tell us to sit on the sideline while you—”

“I never asked you to follow me,” Erik interrupts him coldly, “I—”

“Enough,” Logan says, taking his cigar out of his mouth entirely. What he wouldn’t fucking give to be able to actually light it up. “Both of you shut the fuck up before either of you say something we’ll all regret.”

“Fuck off, Logan,” Scott hisses, but to his credit he clamps his mouth shut, folding his arms again.

Erik takes a breath, only the tail end of it turning shaky. Logan is struck by how fucking _exhausted_ he looks, strung out on his last reserves of strength and not even bothering to hide it—or rather, unable to summon enough energy to try. Running into the fleet of Nyrulian warships took the last bit of fight out of Erik, crushed the last bit of hope left in him. He’s not even sure if Erik himself has realized this, but Logan knows the look of a man running on autopilot because the rest of him has shut down to forestall an ugly breakdown. Getting in contact with Rogers might’ve helped, since Erik’s mentioned he told Steve about the Nyrulian fleet cruising just beyond the borders of Earth Empire territory, but it’s too little too late.

Charles would know what to do, and Logan could laugh at the merciless irony but then he’d be laughing for a long damn time about a fucking lot of different things, Charles would know what to say. Charles, with his fucking annoying endless optimism that always gets taken for naivety, which is so incredibly wrong that Logan’s knocked more heads together over it than he’s kept track of throughout his years of knowing Charles fucking Xavier.

“I’m sorry,” Erik says, not quite looking at either of them.

Scott opens his mouth, no doubt ready with a trademark Summers Scathing Reply at the ready, but Logan reaches over and grabs his arm, squeezing once in warning.

“This isn’t what any of us wanted,” Erik says, and runs a hand through his hair. It’s limp and disheveled, nothing at all like how he usually keeps it. He lets out a soft puff of air that could be a sigh. “I don’t need to tell you that. You already know. But it’s why I think you both already know why you need to stay behind. I may not be worthy anymore to call myself commander of this crew, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to leave them without option if something goes wrong.”

“You sound like you’re planning on something going wrong,” Scott says, but there’s no more fire in his voice, his shoulders beginning to slump. Unstoppable force, meet immovable object.

“You said so yourself,” Erik answers, but there’s no smugness about being proven right, “something always goes wrong.”

“Erik,” Logan says, “are you planning on rescuing Charles or are you planning on dying?”

“I’m planning on getting Charles out,” Erik says, staring straight at him. It’s not a straight answer.

It is, however, one that Logan can accept. For now. He sticks his cigar back in his mouth. “What’s your plan, then, sir?”

“We’re an hour out from Geonosis, now that we’ve adjusted our course to exact coordinates.” Erik nods to the hologram in front of them. “The rings will provide good cover if we can find a suitable position.”

Logan snorts. “Who the fuck do you think I am?”

“Once we’re in position,” Erik continues, accepting Logan’s confidence without even a blink, “Raven will have to come out of Mystique Mode in order to focus her energy reserves on cloaking and shielding. It’ll be easier in this case to cloak as best as we can, instead of sitting as a Nyrulian ship in the middle of an asteroid belt, as that’ll be too suspicious. With any luck, no one will be scanning for ships anyway. But that’s where you’ll keep her until we get back.”

“Who’s your away team?” Logan asks calmly, chewing on end of his cigar. “You’re asking for volunteers but you must have some idea of who you want, because let’s not fucking pretend that not every single person on this damn ship is going to volunteer.”

“It _is_ a suicidal mission,” Erik says stiffly, which only makes Logan roll his eyes. This entire thing is suicidal, but now Charles is actually within reach. He and Scott are going to be the only damn ones not raising their fucking hands to sign up. “I’ve already asked for volunteers. The team’s already set.”

“Glad you fucking told us this before we had this entire argument,” Logan remarks, but he at least can appreciate the tactic. Erik had at least had the courtesy to allow them the illusion of arguing their point. “Let’s hear it, then.”

Erik’s gaze tracks back to Scott. Logan admires the man for his unflinching directness. “You aren’t going to like this.”

“Fuck,” Scott says, and closes his eyes in resignation. It’s like he already knows.

Logan admires the man for accepting the inevitable anyway.

 

X

 

Nick Fury sits behind his desk with his elbows resting on the surface, his fingers laced together in front of his mouth as he regards Steve Rogers and Tony Stark silently, his expression perfectly blank. Rogers and Stark stand side-by-side, and would be shoulder-to-shoulder if it weren’t for the extra inches Rogers has on Stark.

It’s probably a goddamn miracle that they’re standing next to each other at all, given their personal history, but here and now that’s beside the point—they’ve chosen to stand united against a common evil, which in this case appears to be him.

“With all due respect, sir,” Rogers says, arms folded neatly behind his back in a position of parade rest, “you _must_ ready the fleet. Label him a traitor if you’d like, but Lehnsherr wouldn’t feed us false information. Not about this.”

“What the fuck,” Stark breaks in, wild-eyed and tensed with fists clenched at his sides. “You’re not seriously doubting the legitimacy of this, are you? Because if you are, that’s—”

“Close your mouth, Stark,” Fury barks, his tolerance already long past its breaking point, “or I’ll have you escorted down to the brig, which is where I should have put you the moment you set foot on my ship in the first place.”

“Wrong,” Stark says, though his eyes do flicker towards Rogers for a split second to seek reassurance, “you pinky-promised that you wouldn’t. You can’t break a _pinky-promise_.”

“You gave Tony immunity,” Rogers says quietly, but within the depths of his knowing blue eyes Fury can see a spark of rebellion. “Sir, we are wasting time. The Nyrulians have mobilized, they’re practicing drills on the edge of our territory. If we don’t ready ourselves now—”

The door hisses open to admit Grand Duchess Emma Frost, saber and all, and she strides into the room fearlessly, shoving Rogers and Stark apart so that she can take the front and center position in front of Fury’s desk. “Good, you’re all here. This will make things go a little bit faster.”

“What exactly is the meaning of this?” Fury asks, his voice starting to rise in a mark of his extreme displeasure at being interrupted in his own office.

“Greetings, Paladin Fury,” Thor Odinson says as he steps into the room behind Frost, “I am here to represent Asgard Corporation and my brother, Loki.”

“Didn’t want to come himself, did he,” Fury says dryly.

“Regrettably my brother is busy,” Thor answers with a rueful quirk of one eyebrow, “though he sends his warmest regards.”

“Does he,” Fury says, in the tone of a man who knows far better. “That still fails to explain why I am witnessing direct insubordination from a top-ranking member of Starfleet who actually has no business being in this sector, let alone on my ship.”

“Paladin Fury.” Frost slams a hand down on the desk, eyes glittering as she leans forward and meets Fury’s impassive gaze. “I have a proposition for you, sir, and I think you’re going to like it.”

 

X

 

Erik surveys the group of select officers in front of him with sharp, cold eyes, retreated so far into himself that even he can tell he looks human in only the vaguest of ways.

“I understand you all volunteered for this with full and educated knowledge of what precisely I’m asking you to do,” he says calmly. “But you’re young, so I also understand you may be responding to a sense of misguided loyalty. I’m obligated to remind you that this isn’t only illegal, it’s suicidal.”

“We understand,” says Alex Summers. “We are fully aware of conditions and consequences. This is an informed decision.”

“It’s loyalty,” agrees Armando Muñoz. “But not misguided. I’d also like to point out that I’m the best shot in the ship, Alex is the best close-combat specialist, and Sean can actually understand Nyrulian. Not to be too arrogant, but not only could you use us, you need us.”

Erik measures one inhalation and then long slow exhalation of air before he can speak with a steady voice.

“I can’t allow this. Talented or not, you’re only plebes.”

The fact of the matter is entirely the opposite. He may not in good conscience be able to allow this, but this is also not a normal circumstance. He’s already made sure that Scott and Logan are to remain on the Heartsteel. He can’t afford to turn away the rest of his best men too, even if they _are_ only plebes—not when the mission they’re about to embark on will require every single last one of their skills.

He can, however, put the argument forward as a way to test them. One second’s worth of hesitation would be enough of excuse for Erik to cut them from the team. Where they’re going, there’s not going to be room or time for second thoughts. Erik might need the best he has, but he also needs people who are ready for the sacrifice that this mission might— _will_ —entail.

It will also be interesting to mark how they choose to respond.

The three young men exchange looks that suggest they foresaw he would use this argument. Good.

“With all due respect, sir,” Armando pauses and then shrugs his shoulders. “What you’re basically doing is resigning your commission. So technically you’re not our War-Prince as of the moment we stepped into this hangar.”

Sean Cassidy crosses his arms. “Which means you’re an independent agent working behind enemy lines—which for the record, cool. But it strips you of authority over us, so—”

“So unless you want to shoot us with a phaser to prevent us from getting onto that shuttle,” says Alex loudly, and the other two grimace, “we’re going with you.”

Erik wonders if Alex has spoken with Scott before now. He wonders if Scott tried to convince Alex to change his mind and if the two brothers fought during what could possibly be their last time seeing each other alive, or if they didn’t fight at all. The look in Alex’s eyes now suggests it’s better not to ask.

“Then let’s move out,” is all Erik says instead, satisfied enough by their answers, and turns around and walks into the Lavellan shuttle that waits in the Heartsteel’s main hanger without a glance over his shoulder.

Wade’s ship is already disembarked, conspicuously absent from the hanger, though no one asks Erik about it. The bounty hunter knows what to do. The conversation Erik had had with him half an hour prior in the privacy of the storage hold had been enough.

He’s halfway up the gangway when he catches motion out of the corner of his eye and whirls around just in time to see Hank McCoy running his hands through his short hair and looking nonchalant in the small crowd of shocked and horrified faces around him.

“All of you shut your mouths,” he says irritably. “I know all your personal versions of luck and you _will_ get shot, stabbed, sliced, or maimed somehow, I _guarantee_ it. I’ll have to patch you up eventually so I might as well do it in-situ. Besides, Charles probably needs me.”

One by one, Armando, Alex, and Sean each shut their mouths and look to Erik. Erik can only give the CMO a nod in thanks, and then climbs the rest of the way up into the shuttle.

It feels odd and alien to be wearing civilian clothes. It’s been so long. He’s glad now that he invested in a phaser-diffusing sweater, despite Charles’ ample teasing about his paranoia. The sweater covers him from wrists to jaw, and is a little too form-fitting for his liking, but will certainly do the job. He wishes that he had any to spare for the plebes coming along, but the garment is nearly impossible to secure—Erik had intended to buy two, but Charles had pitched a frankly _astonishing_ fit at the price and refused to consent. Erik is often underhanded, but even he could not be as dull as to do something against Charles’ clear—and needless to mention _very fucking loud_ —wishes. You don’t do that to a friend.

Erik has piloted the Lavellan shuttle before in moments of unspeakable boredom, and the only reason he even consented to keeping the damn thing in the hangar of the Heartsteel is that the piloting system is different enough from their own that it represents quite the challenge for their crew. It’s not only non-intuitive; it’s frankly ridiculous, with screen displaying data that is completely irrelevant to flight necessities, and controls way out of human reach.

The Lavellans are symbiotic creatures; they come in bonded pairs, their minds intertwined so closely one with the other that it eventually becomes impossible to braid apart one’s thoughts from the others. Two people need to sit at the cockpit for the shuttle to be piloted decently. Erik can handle it well enough on his own with an inexpert pilot at his side, but any fancy flying is better left for when Charles is with him; Charles can predict his needs with the ease of long practice, and they are coordinated enough that they function as one person in two bodies.

It becomes quickly obvious that this is not the case with Armando, but it merits mention that Armando adapts quickly to his gestures and glances and his instinctive responses are correct and ready. He’s more than passable.

Logan has maneuvered the Heartsteel through the treacherous ring of rocks surrounding Geonosis and has her hovering within the innermost band, just beyond a particularly large boulder, so it’s easy enough for Erik and Armando to get their shuttle out past the rocks and into the area of open space between the ring and the planet’s atmosphere. It’s not entirely open, however—mined with vessels ranging in size and origin from stolen and subsequently deformed Vulcan speedships to large, spiked monstrosities whose sides are decorated with great high-intensity laser cannons, their path to down to the planet’s surface couldn’t be more perilous.

“They’ve all come to see the show,” Sean murmurs, peering out of the shuttle’s tiny windows even as he keeps an eye on the communications console in case someone tries to hail them.

“Gandorian battlestar,” mutters Logan on the communications system, whistling low in awe as they pass the largest ship in the mismatched fleet. “Never seen one of those outside a pad.”

“My god,” McCoy says faintly.

“We better skirt around that one,” says Armando. “Their sensors are nasty.”

Erik nods and steers away, well out of sensor reach. Gandorians are the giants of the Universe, an ancient civilization with very little interest in the comings and goings of the other species so long as they are allowed to remain undisturbed. Always unflinchingly neutral, powerful enough to destroy both the Nyrulian and Earth Empire fleets, they have across the centuries maintained an attitude that suggests that they are at once vaguely amused and vaguely irritated by the ongoing tensions of intergalactic politics.

Unlike the Vulcans, neutral in action but in word allied to the Earth Empire, Gandorians trade with and shelter all species with an aplomb that suggests that, should someone be foolish enough to stir their slumbering wrath, they will rain upon the galaxy horror the likes of which has never before been seen.

To see them here now, suspended like a massive whale alongside little fish reminds Erik that, in the grand scale of the galaxy, humans and Nyrulians are small fry, and that his own fight to rescue Charles is in comparison smaller than a sand grain in the deserts of planet Pulka. Humbling, and yet at the same time enraging; that the Universe at large should think Charles such a small and inconsequential thing when he’s everything and more to Erik.

He steers away from the Gandorians, although vaguely he wonders what they would do, should they discover that there are humans at the helm. Most likely better not to find out.

Piloting with swift efficiency, he maneuvers the ship down to Geonosis without attracting any suspicious attention and lands it in a yard outside the hub of the city. Then pushes himself away from the controls and turns to his unlikely companions even as he taps the comm link in his ear once.

“Logan, we’re going into radio silence now. I don’t want there to be any chance that this party will be traced back to the Fleet.”

There is a moment of tense silence. “I understand. Be careful down there.”

Erik says nothing, popping open a side hatch on his chair and busying himself with expertly checking for all the safety regulations on his astonishingly illegal phaser rifle—he didn’t even ask how Logan got that on his ship, he’s not sure he wants to know and frankly could not give any less of a shit at the moment. The thing is powerful. That’s all he cares about.

The three ex-plebes watch him with surprise, but at least Hank is nothing but grim acceptance.

“You’re going to get us killed, sir,” says Alex, perfectly straight-faced and by the looks of things quite at peace with this truth. To be fair he’s been aware of this glimpse of the future for a long time. Erik generates two sorts of feelings in people: undying loyalty, and a terror that borderlines religious. Something like concern must break across Erik’s brow, because Sean waves a hand airily in Alex’s face.

“We’re not going to die, sir,” he replies. “We’re too pretty.”

“You’re all hideous,” says Scott in the comm line. It’s the first and only thing he’s said. “And I told you not to call him sir, idiot. We’re going dark. Don’t get killed, or so help me, you’ll fucking regret it.”

There is a distinct click as the line goes dead. Erik inhales deeply, locks the air in his chest for a long, painful moment, and then releases it in a long, measured stream. He gestures to the others and then digs in the compartments above his head for a headdress.

They’re a little short to pass for average Lavellans, but the brilliant part about the Lavellans is their religion forbids them to show their anatomy to aliens. Nobody knows what they look like, only that they are upright, tall, and long-limbed; humanoid in a vague manner, but certainly humanoid enough that Erik and his team can pass as long as nobody squints in their direction.

Certainly nobody would expect humans this far out into Nyrulian territory. Hopefully that will give enough hesitation in any suspicions directed towards them that they will be able to move unimpeded until the last possible moment.

The long, flowing robes the Lavellans favor hide them entirely from view, with the bonus of also hiding their weapons. They’re nervous as they leave the shuttle and mingle into the crowd, and Erik is very keenly aware of the weight of the rifle hanging nose-down along his side, the tightness of the strap pressing on his left shoulder and right armpit. He’ll be ready to fire it in a second, but if they go in guns blazing Charles will most definitely die before they reach him.

Erik has only the vaguest idea where they are holding him. Rogers had spoken of an arena, and holding cells and cages around and along the arena’s edges. If they mean to put Charles in there tonight, he is certain to be in one of them. So Erik knows they need to go towards the colosseum he can see towering above the crowd in the distance as dusk begins to fall on this side of the planet.

They move in loose formation. Sean stays close by at his left side, arms brushing, so that they seem like a bonded pair and at the same time he’s covering his unarmed left flank; Armando and Alex do the same to their right, covering Erik to the right and one step back. McCoy trails right behind Erik, shielded by his bulk but unobtrusive. Erik’s not surprised how easily they’ve fallen into perfect order; there is no one in the Heartsteel who is not the best at what they do, even under the oddest of circumstances.

Around them it’s the xenobiologist’s paradise. Tall, lupine Gandorians, with long snouts and ears, the inspiration behind the long-dead Egyptian god Anubis. Stalking hostile Lacamassus, all teeth and claws and small beaded eyes, three pairs of them along their foreheads stretching tight on elongated skulls. Sartunions fly by on their long leathery wings, their six limbs skimming heads among the crowd. Looming above them to heights of over nine feet, skeletal Marinokas with swinging jaws lined with tusks of resplendent diamond guard their male mates, several feet shorter and armed only with little fangs and spiked shoulders.

Erik has never seen such a gathering of alien species in all his life and all his travels. He wishes Charles could see it. He would love this.

 Except for the Nyrulians. They are everywhere, stalking about armed to the tentacles, arrogant in a proprietary manner but still smart enough to watch themselves when surrounded with so many staggeringly powerful creatures.

Erik is once again reminded of the fact both Nyrulians and humans are relatively new civilizations.

They make their way across meandering streets and tangled webs of alleys and large paved streets full of aliens Erik can’t even name anymore. The Nyrulians are everywhere; none of them give them more than a cursory glance, but Erik is tense and ready for violence.

Still, despite their imperfect disguises and the long walk, they manage to make good time on their long walk towards the colosseum. Erik’s mind has already moved ahead to the next step of getting inside the building when he’s forced to draw back sharply to the present.

Too busy watching the aliens around them to take notice of his own forward motion, Alex runs right into a female Marinoka—or rather, the leg of a female Marinoka—and nearly gets a jawful of diamond tusks to the face. The male smooths it over with the practice of a creature long accustomed to smoothing over their female counterparts’ wildly violent outbursts, while Armando quickly drags Alex back to a safer distance and they’re allowed to continue on their way unchallenged and unharmed.

Erik doesn’t bother to stop and reprimand him; they have no time and can’t afford to linger and cause a scene, so he presses onward after a mere sharp glance in Alex’s direction, all of them falling back into their loose formation around him again. It feels like hours, but by Erik’s inner clock it only takes them twenty minutes of leisurely walk to get to the colosseum doors in total.

They take the time to walk a long circle around the colosseum only to ascertain what they had suspected: all doors are guarded by two well-armed Nyrulians. Obviously they will not ask a Lavellan to show themselves—Lavellan are notorious for introducing a knife to the inner lining if your stomach if you suggest they reveal their anatomy to you—but they will certainly be asking for identities. Sean speaks a passable Lavellan, but the rest of them are hopeless and won’t stand even the most desultory check.

“Option B,” says Alex with finality. “We find the darkest door and neutralize the guards.”

“Can you take on two Nyrulians?” Erik asks, eyebrow raised. “Phasers aren’t an option here, the shots will have the rest of the guards running.”

“Well, I was thinking more along the lines I get one and you get the other, but I guess if you’re not feeling up to the cardio, don’t go out of your way for me or anything.”

Erik is all at once reminded that Scott very often bemoans the fact his brother exists, let alone is a crewmate on the same starship. There’s no knowing with the headdresses on, covering the majority of their faces, but he thinks Armando is staring at Alex with his head tilted at a certain angle that suggests he’d be giving him a look at once impatient and fond, were he able to.

The darkest and most sheltered door is up against a sandy boulder that obscures the streetlights. Alex and Erik divest themselves of the robes, which compromise the range of their movements, and creep forward on silent feet, sheltered in shadow, until they can jump the Nyrulians and sink long curved knives into their throats. The knives are nothing like regulation and god only knows where Alex got them, but they slide right through the Nyrulians’ thick skin like a hot blade through butter. They go down without a sound.

Erik is forced again to make a choice. The ex-plebes have showed that they are anything but useless, but continuing forward, deeper into the maze of this facility, with absolutely no knowledge of its layout or number or position of guards and hostiles—and he must necessarily assume everyone here is a hostile—equates to going in blind to a pitch-dark phaser fight. Misguided loyalty or not, Erik has no right to drag them into this. Indecision rakes icy claws at him, his new but already intimately acquainted constant companion.

He pauses in the darkness of the door and turns back to them.

“Don’t even start,” says McCoy, grabbing him by the arm and turning him back around. “We’re coming. We’re all in this together.”

The time for covers and subtlety is now over. This is not a rescue operation; this is an extraction. The point is to go in, secure the precious cargo, and go right the fuck out with as minimal as contact with the enemy as can possibly be achieved. Normally this sort of operation would take Erik less than ten minutes with the right backup, complete data, and enough preparation. But although the backup is more than acceptable, the data is nonexistent and they have literally no preparation but past experiences and their instincts.

It would have been doomed from the start if not for the fact Alex can cut down a Nyrulian with ruthless, shocking ease, for the absolutely miraculous aim of Armando’s long-range-precision phaser rifle and handguns, if not for the smooth and cool-headed way Sean listens to passing Nyrulians as they hide in nooks and crannies and manages to deduce the timetable they are working on. McCoy might not at present be useful, but he’s certainly not dead weight as he moves quickly, doesn’t hesitate, and knows how to stay out of the way of the specialists.

It’s difficult, and slow-going, and they are working against time and must always hide the bodies of the aliens they kill so as to not arouse suspicion before they’re ready to take on full-frontal combat with Charles in their midst. But, painstakingly, ruthlessly, they sink further into the colosseum’s maze-like corridors and tunnels, eliminate the threats, clear their escape route, and get to the cells lining the edge of the arena.

“This corridor curves all along the arena,” says Sean, out of breath from their long exertions. “All the cells on this corridor are for prisoners. He has to be on one of them.”

Erik gathers himself, ignores the wild beating of his heart in his throat, and glances through the door window on the first cell. Alex and the others run ahead, quickly checking the other ones, and they move swiftly down the corridor in an organized pack maneuver, check-clear-move, check-clear-move, for long tense and silent seconds until—

“Here!” cries Armando, and aims a phaser handgun at the lock on a door and vaporizes a large hole into it. He and Alex shove their shoulders into it and swing it abruptly open into the cell. Erik stands overcome by dread in the doorway for a fraction of a second, and then rushes in.

His eyes find Charles with the same fevered desperation that a thirsty man’s eyes seek a desert oasis, and everything else in the world seems to fall away.

“Charles,” he gets out, his voice sounding distant even to his own ears. Later he won’t remember crossing the short length of the cell to where Charles lies crumbled on his side on the cold stone floor, or dropping down to his knees beside him helplessly. All that truly matters is that this is it. He’s finally found Charles. He’s _here_.

It is apparent at once that something is very wrong with Charles, and Erik’s stomach drops to his feet. Bruises line his throat and jaw, the delicate joints of wrists, curving wicked up to the crease of his elbows, lined with sharp and deep-looking cuts that look more like deliberate incisions than the marks left behind by syringes, and for a moment Erik is too afraid to touch him and cause further hurt. But then he steadies himself, breathing in and out, before he reaches for Charles, gently shifting him onto his back and brushing soft fingertips across his cheek with one trembling hand.

“Charles,” he repeats, his voice breaking a little but he doesn’t care enough to be self-conscious over it, “Charles, it’s me.”

Glacially slow, Charles cracks his eyes open, tiny slivers of deep blue that take far too long to focus on Erik’s face. He stares up at Erik for a long, suspended moment, until a faint spark of recognition flares up from within the glazed, pained depths, regaining a little more consciousness. “Erik?” his voice is a whisper, faint and weak, but still _there_.

“Yes,” Erik manages, throat clamping down on the word and making it a strangled breath. He cradles Charles’ head and helplessly combs back his sweat-dampened and matted hair, away from his dark-bruised eyes and sunken cheeks. “I’m here. I’m alive.”

“Erik,” Charles whispers again, and closes his eyes and leans in to Erik’s palm when Erik cups one hand around his cheek. A single tear squeezes its way out past his eyelashes, and Charles’ chest shakes with a ragged sob. “You’re _alive_.”

“I am,” Erik agrees, his eyes burning with the sensation of unshed tears of his own as his other hand slips down to find one of Charles’ and wrap their fingers together. “Darling, I’m here. I’m here.”

Whatever Charles says in reply is swallowed up by another shuddering sob that wracks his entire body as he reaches for Erik, so Erik leans down to press their foreheads gently together, letting him cling, heart aching even as he allows himself to soak in Charles’ presence again at last as they breathe together. _Charles_. His star.

“You shouldn’t have come,” Charles breathes in the scant distance between them, Erik’s blood running cold, “oh god, Erik, you shouldn’t have come.”

“Shh,” Erik soothes him, gentle enough to hide the desperation clawing at his insides because of _course_ he should have come, Charles _knows_ he’s worth all risk and more, “we’re here to get you out.”

“Don’t let them catch you,” Charles says, suddenly feverishly anxious, and Erik pulls back slightly in confused concern, “ _please_ , Erik, don’t let them catch you.”

Hank clears his throat softly and then slots himself at Erik’s side and quickly checks Charles’ vitals, frowning but otherwise blank-faced. He pulls out a tricorder, scanning it up and down Charles’ body with swift, repetitive strokes.

“What’s wrong with him?” asks Sean quietly from where he hovers nearby, peering down at Charles with wide eyes.

“Everything,” Hank bites out. “He’s half-delirious.” He snaps the tricorder shut and turns to Erik, expression grim. “They’ve actually healed him up quite a bit, but.” He taps his temple meaningfully, and with cold, clear horror, Erik understands.

“Guys, not to break things up, but we have to go,” Armando calls urgently from the doorway.

“Erik,” Charles says, looking up at him with half-lucid eyes, and Erik is held momentarily rooted to the spot by an overwhelming wave of the fierce devotion he harbors for Charles, called to the forefront now that he has every need in the galaxy to protect this man that he holds in his arms, and get him away from this place—from _everything_ —for good.

“Let’s move!” Alex barks, shouldering Hank aside with careless brutality to slip a shoulder under Charles’ armpit and heave him up. “We’re out of time!”

Erik shakes himself to clear his head as much as he can and takes hold of Charles’ other arm, and between himself and Alex they lift Charles up, heading out into the corridor with Armando at the lead and Sean on the rearguard with Hank. They make their way along the curve of the corridor to the doorway, up a flight of stairs, to the left, to the right, across a window-lined room. Erik memorized the way they came in and he knows Armando did as well; Erik can trust him to lead them out.

This is just as well, because Erik’s mind is short-circuiting around Charles’ wretched state. It’s clear he’s been tortured, and by no means Erik has ever seen. There’s no telling what they’ve done to him or how long they did it for. Erik is grateful Armando has taken on the lead, because he—he can’t—he’s _scared_.

He needs to push through this—he _can_ push through this—but Charles is nearly dead weight dangling heavy between him and Alex and a choking panic is crawling up like bile inside his throat, acidic and poisonous.

He nearly misses it when the three Nyrulians round the corner ahead of them and without warning all hell breaks loose. Armando’s arm flies up and he shoots down the first one but next one rams Armando against the wall, his head making a sickening sound against the stone before he goes down. Alex slips abruptly away and Erik almost loses his balance along with Charles in the sudden redistribution of weight, but Hank rushes over and catches Charles in his own arms, lowering him slowly to the floor.

“I’ve got him, go!” he shouts.

Erik disentangles himself to bring up his rifle, too late, _too late_ —the third Nyrulian is upon him, a hissing and seething mass of fury, catching his left wrist in its own hand and squeezing, squeezing—pain blinds Erik, steals the breath form his lungs with its intensity and brings him down to his knees, mindless. The Nyrulian follows him down, still squeezing, and blood is seeping between its dark-skinned fingers and there is a glimmer of something white and glossy between his thumb and index and Erik can’t breathe _can’t breathe_ —the _pain_ —

His shoulder hits the stone of the floor and his back is arching and he can’t think—more Nyrulians are pouring into the corridor, that much he can see, but oh, Armando is getting up, swaying on his feet, and Alex is still fighting like a wild and ferocious animal, Sean curved protectively with Erik’s rifle above Hank and Charles.

Charles’ eyes are open, half-lidded and hazy, and staring right at Erik, slowly opening wider in dawning horror. They’re all Erik can focus on as his own vision is going dark around the edges and the Nyrulian is still doing—whatever—it’s doing—to his—

Oh.

There’s a gut-wrenching, final crack of bone and an awful, wet ripping noise that sparks pain like bright comets across his darkening vision, and the Nyrulian’s death grip on his wrist falls away and Erik’s hand drops away with it, leaving him to stare blankly at the bloody, ruined stump of his arm in horrified shock and he thinks he’s screaming before the darkness overwhelms him completely and he passes out.


	13. Protocol is dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! Thank you for your patience - we are finished at last! 
> 
> First things first: graphic-extraordinaire **Sasheenka** has made three posts of awesome graphics: [1](http://sasheenka.tumblr.com/post/64106333884/a-small-manip-inspired-by-yesterdays-update-of), [2](http://sasheenka.tumblr.com/post/64208804408), & [3](http://sasheenka.tumblr.com/post/64297581257)! :D 
> 
> Secondly, if you messaged Pan (see the notes at the top of last chapter), please message me again as I have misplaced my list of you guys. My apologies! Also, **please heed all previously listed warnings**.
> 
>  Thirdly...hold on tightly. ;)

X

 

Erik waits at the end of the hallway when Charles steps out of Fury’s office, leaned back against the wall with his arms folded, the slight furrow of his brow the only sign of his disquiet as he waits. He doesn’t look up until Charles has crossed the empty distance between them, and while in those scant few seconds Charles has rehearsed what to say a hundred thousand times, every last word flies completely out of his head as soon as Erik’s steely gaze flickers up to meet his own.

He comes to a stop beside him and takes a breath. Opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again, makes to speak, but ends up coughing when his throat suddenly gets itchy from all the dust particles that are probably floating around in the air around them. At least that’s what he tells himself as he awkwardly clears his throat, giving Erik a rueful smile.

“Dinner?” Erik says, apropos of nothing, effortlessly pushing off the wall and straightening.

“Off campus?” Charles asks hopefully, falling into step beside him with long, practiced ease as Erik starts for the double doors that will lead them out of the administration building. This late in the afternoon on a Friday, the building is empty and so is the quad once they step outside into the sunlight, a crisp breeze blowing a few scattered leaves across the pavement.

“Naturally,” Erik agrees, automatically adjusting his longer strides so Charles doesn’t have to trot in order to keep up. “Charles.”

Charles’ head shoots up at his name, jolted out of another inward battle of how to broach the subject hovering between them, making them orbit around it in tight circles like dual stars. “Yes?”

“Thank you.” Erik’s voice is still calm and measured, but knowing Erik as he does, his best friend, Charles doesn’t have to look far to glean Erik’s unflinching sincerity. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Charles initial response is to open his mouth again to accuse Erik of eavesdropping even though that isn’t the point, but he pauses. He may as well have written it across his own face, he supposes, as soon as he and Erik met up in the hallway. He passed the exam, Erik didn’t. Fury offered him a special rank and a very high position in chain of command, and Charles turned him down.

Of course Erik knows. Erik probably expected Charles to pass, because—the notion finally, finally, _finally_ clicking into place, after all this time, and maybe Charles should’ve realized from the start—Erik believes in him, even when Charles doesn’t entirely believe in himself.

“Of course I did,” Charles answers him, his voice a little thick, and means it. There is no one else he would rather stand beside on the bridge of a ship, and perhaps it is selfish of him, to turn Fury down when he’s one of the few qualified enough for Master Tactician, but Fury hadn’t stopped him, hadn’t pulled rank and ordered him, so Charles is going to let himself have this.

If Erik will have _him_.

“Good,” Erik says simply, so perfectly straightforward and so perfectly Erik that Charles nearly laughs despite himself. “I’m glad.”

Charles smiles, small and private, and allows his shoulder to knock against Erik’s companionably. They’ll have a ship of their own one day, with the power to explore all the stars of the galaxy and beyond at their fingertips, and together they’ll do incredible things. He _knows_ it.

“Dinner, but drinks after,” he decides, “I think a little celebration for your graduation is in order.”

“The ceremony isn’t until next week,” Erik says automatically.

Charles gives him a grin. “Never too early to start celebrating, Prince Lehnsherr.”

Erik’s gaze flicks away to the side, which Charles knows is equivalent to anyone else rolling their eyes. It might be fond. “Fine. Only as long as you don’t throw up on my shoes.”

Charles does laugh this time, and the corners of Erik’s mouth quirk upwards in a fleeting smile at the sound. “Aye, Captain.”

 

X

 

They sit in an empty conference room a few doors down from Fury’s office, in silence, together.

Fury had taken one more moment to stare at Emma Frost before his gaze had snapped back to Steve and Tony and he told them, with all the politeness of a wrecking ball, “Get out.”

Even Tony had known better than to argue, so they’d gracefully withdrawn to the conference room.

Steve’s mind is not blank. His mind is rarely blank. Whenever a situation presents itself that needs an immediately resolution, Steve can always automatically come up with a plan, a trajectory, instructions and orders for those around him to execute actions that will ultimately set in motion the perfect response. The best achievable result in the least possible amount of time with the least number of actions required. A straight line, point-a-to-point-b-no-middle-ground.

So his mind is not blank. Only it’s not coming up with a solution either. 

The thing in his mind should be that the Nyrulians are coming and the war is closing in on them after so many years of peaceful coexistence and so many people are going to die, so many lives will be lost and ruined and fractured forever, so many wives and husbands and lovers and sons and daughters that will never get a chance to go back home—

And all he’s thinking is of the unexpectedly soft curve of Tony’s bottom lip, cherry red above the dark hair of his beard, the masculine angle of his proud jaw, the long line of his slender throat with the graceful tendon leading from the hollow of his collarbones to the dark and intimate spot right behind and beneath his ear where he smells strongly of himself, the perfect little nook for Steve’s nose.

_I love you_ , he thinks helplessly, desperately. _I love you so goddamn much_.

Tony stares at him, hazel eyes wide and glassy.

“What do we do?” he rasps, growing paler by the second. “Steve. What do we do?”

_Tell me what to do. Help me fix this. Tell me how to get us out of this!_

It’s not the first time Tony asks this of Steve—god, please don’t let it be the last, _please_ —and the last time Steve failed, he failed so badly, because he couldn’t put Tony before his loyalties and what he thought was the right way to go, he couldn’t turn his back for once, just once, Steve, please I’m asking you—

Steve fists a hand on the front of Tony’s shirt and drags him forward and their mouths crash together, teeth clacking, it’s hard, it hurts, it’s _perfect_. Tony grunts, in surprise or something else, Steve can’t tell because he’s too busy dragging him out of his seat and into his lap, angling his head, stubble rasp and the breath he exhales through his nose and his scent of oil and steel and the warmth of his skin beneath his palms, the weight of him across his thighs _, just right_.

_If this is how we die_ , he thinks, _if this is our last day, you will damn well know how much I love you_.

Tony’s hands are tangled in his hair and then squeezing the back of his neck, so tightly he’ll bruise, and Steve really could not give any less of a shit about the world right then and there, and he should never have cared, not when he had this. When he had it and he let it go.

He breaks the kiss to swallow down a sob and what comes out of his mouth is: “I’m sorry, I love you, I’m so sorry—“

“Shit,” mutters Tony, clinging to his neck and pressing their foreheads together. “Shit, Steve, _fuck_. What the fuck, what—“

Steve kisses him again, licking into his mouth and crushing him to his front though the position if awkward in the chair and there are cameras everywhere, filming them, and fuck, whatever, he already gave up his career, what’s one more nail in the coffin, what does it all matter at this point—

He snaps out of the kiss, stays panting wetly against the corner of Tony’s mouth, and his mind realigns abruptly like a train finding its tracks after derailing.

It matters. It matters because if they live, if they survive, Steve is going to spend the next decade in bed with Tony making up for all the time his stupid stubbornness wasted them. He’ll suck his amends into Tony’s neck and the small of his back and he’ll lick them into his mouth.

“Ionstar,” he calls, pressing Tony’s face to the side of his neck like it will protect him. “Get me Fury right now.” 

Tony shifts. “Uh, right now?”

“Ionstar, revoke that, get me Fury in five minutes.”

Rising and getting his feet underneath him, Tony stands, pulling down his shirt and smoothing out the wrinkles. Steve sits back in his chair, mind racing ahead. They’ll have to get a fleet-wide communication to alert everyone. It would probably be prudent to have mass evacuation protocols in effect on Third Earth and the Colonies. The rescue of the surviving Kefflars is still underway, but the Ionstar is a battleship; they’ll need her in combat, so—

Tony braces his hands on the armrests and dips down, tangles his long clever fingers on Steve’s hair and pulls him up and they collide in the middle, this kiss much smoother, sweeter, as filthy as Tony can make it without undressing Steve and dropping to his knees between Steve’s spread thighs. Steve catches his arms and clings to him, he knows the sounds coming out of his mouth are desperate and pathetic, but he can’t stop himself or gather what little of dignity and grace there us about him. Not when Tony’s beard rasps the soft spot beneath his lip and his sharp and even teeth nibble at his mouth.

There is a loud beep, and Tony flinches and scrambles away, panting and glass-eyed.

“What the fuck,” snaps Paladin Nicholas Fury. “Tell me you did not hail me on the emergency line to give me livecam amateur gay porn.”

Tony squawks. “Who’re you calling _amateur_?”

Fury’s eye goes right through Tony in a way that suggests it’s also going through the bulkheads, hull, deep dead space, and into a star that turns immediately supernova and explodes. Steve is privately shocked that Fury’s looks can’t kill. That’s one myth proved false.

Steve rises from the chair with the grace of a cat, all at once squaring his shoulders, straightening his spine, and steadying Tony as he steps back. His mind casts ahead like a far-flung fishing line, sharp and fast like a laser light.

“I have a vague idea of a plan that might save our skins,” he says evenly, finding Fury’s dark eye on the viewscreen. It’s admittedly a rather weak presentation. The only indication of the man’s shock and dismay is the slight downturning of his surprisingly generous lips, the added glint to his eye, hard like the edge of a blade. “We need to out defense and evacuation protocols in effect immediately.”

Fury’s jaw works. “What do you recommend?”

Steve’s mind blazes ahead, eyes flicking around the room, absently cataloguing what he sees. The desk, the terminal, the suspended viewscreen, the port, the dark shadow of unkempt scruff at Tony’s jaw and cheeks, his beard and mustache, his brows, the bright and smart hazel of his eyes.

“Call all battleships to form right outside Third Earth space. All Mobile Colonies need to disperse and cloak, one smaller battleship each to defend them. Colonies in planets need to be ready to evacuate or shield. Let’s assume all human population and all allies are in danger.”

He pauses, following the starburst of realization with a ruthless swell of pragmatism. Something shifts under his palm, and his eyes flick down to see he’s holding onto Tony’s arm and is squeezing enough to bruise. He tells himself to let go and manages only to loosen his grasp, the contact lingering like his hand can’t stand to be away from Tony’s skin.

“Alert Vulcan and other planets that the Nyrulians might consider in our side,” he adds slowly. “Tell them to ready themselves for defense, quiet-like. We can’t have Nyrulians thinking peaceful civilizations are arming themselves for war, but we can’t allow them to be unprepared either.”

His eyes snap up, storm blue. “And get this ship to Third Earth. If I’m going to spearhead this, I need to be there on the front line.”

Fury nods. “I’ll get it done in half an hour.”

An optimistic window of time to get the appropriate personnel to tidy up the Keflar situation. Shuttles and lesser vessels will have to be dispatched and for all intents and purposes abandoned in deep space to continue the humanitarian mission while the Ionstar leaves for Third Earth. Leaving these people in the middle of godforsaken icy fucking nowhere with no support or backup for the duration of whatever is coming towards them makes Steve’s stomach turn. But there is nothing else he can do; he will need every available fighter at his fingertips if he’s going to mount up a hasty but effective defense of Third Earth and its many Colonies.

There are so many variables and possibilities that can turn this into a swift and bloody massacre, and Steve needs to take them all into account. The size, direction, speed and maneuverability of the Nyrulian fleet. Its allies and backers willing and ready to rally at their backs against humanity.

The outposts and military bases they will automatically seek to destroy along the way, seven of which Steve can think off the top of his mind considering the location at which Lehnsherr says to have run into the Nyrulians. Also on their way: Vulcan, Romulus, Torino, Lashmiki and its sister planet Sharimki, a dozen civilized but small planets in the binary star system of Rincasa-Centauri, half a dozen relay stations for Fleet starships, a star-charting station researching a black hole at the edges of the Adromeda Galaxy, the solitary exploration vessels studying star-dust clusters, the location of which can only at the best of time be guessed at.

He wonders if Fury will think of them. He must trust that he will, or else he risks micromanaging, which he cannot afford, not if he means to save Third Earth.

He inhales sharply when Tony crouches down between his spread thighs, hands warm and steady along their tops. Tony’s face is still a little pale, but he has rallied under pressure and found his courage.

“Tell me what you need.”

Steve drags him in for a rough, hard kiss, and then stands again, determined.

“Get me Loki Odinson.”

Tony sits at the desk without question. His fingertips move at such speed in the touchscreen that the screen begins to lag and send out warning messages, which flash and then immediately disappear as the computer bends to Tony’s will. He’s probably getting a better performance from the Ionstar than Fury ever expected it to yield, which only makes sense.

The viewscreen blanks and then snaps into focus on an empty spaceship cockpit, dark and surprisingly sober. A second later, someone slinks into view, wearing only pants and with a shirt bunched in his hands.

“What the fuck,” he starts, arching a slim dark brow.

“Loki,” Steve steps into sight. “I need you to send out a wide-encrypted message to all human-allied ships, relay stations and planets form Third Earth to Nyrulian space, but make sure it’s indecipherable to Nyrulians. The message is this: ‘Nyrulians in motion. Be ready for conflict. If defense proves impossible seek refuge.’”

Loki’s brow climbs even higher, and then his face freezes into a split second of horror before it slides, chillingly, into imperturbable calm.

“I can encrypt a message like that in under an hour, but it will take several hours for it to reach the farthest recipients, optimistically. My ship is small. I don’t have the sort of power—”

“Use the relay satellites,” says Tony immediately.

Loki doesn’t even hesitate to say, “I don’t have the skill to hack Fleet comm satellites.”

A humble and ready admission and not one second spared to protest the chance of his incarceration should he be discovered to have done so. Steve feels a swell of gratitude, though no one would dare call Loki Odinson agreeable.

“I’ll do that,” snaps Tony. “Encrypt the message.”

Loki twists quickly into his shirt and sits on the chair in front of the viewscreen, eyes darting around and fingers flying.

“Get Thor,” he says absently, mouth curving downwards. “I need him to blow open all the Asgard Corporation satellites to me. Tell him to get his girlfriend on it, she’s smarter.”

Steve accesses a side console, finds Thor Odinsons meandering pointlessly about the Ionstar with a look of completely endearing curiosity, hooks him into the comm with his brother, and then stalks right out of the room. He has to trust Tony and Loki and Thor to handle this. He must.

He walks briskly down the corridor until he finds Emma Frost stepping out of Fury’s office.

“Not-Paladin Rogers,” says Emma, arching her fine brows in an insincerely unimpressed gesture. Steve knows how much Emma respects him, and he’s not about to be cowed by her attitude.

“I need something from you,” he says directly.

She blinks, her eyes shuttering for half of a second. “And what is that?”

“Specifics of the locations of Gandorian battle stars.”

Emma taps her fingers against the hilt of her sword slowly, eyes narrowed. “Why do you need that?”

Steve breathes out, tasting the words in his mouth. “Because I intend to make the Nyrulians shoot themselves in the foot.”

Emma stares at him, eyes widening by a fraction. “You’re going to cloak the Gandorians in Earth signals to turn them into bait.”

Steve nods, grim, even while he appreciates how easily her thoughts can jump to catch up with his. “And I need to talk to them first,” he says, seeing the dust clear from around the bare bones of his plan, “because I think it’s only polite to warn a fella before you send a fleet of bloodthirsty warring aliens at their face.”

She opens her mouth, closes it, opens it again. Swallows.

“Why would the Gandorians help us?”

“Because the Nyrulians are attacking for no good damn reason,” says Steve, and knows this to be true, and just. “And Gandorians have no patience for useless conflict.”

“You think if the Nyrulians mistakenly open fire on the Gandorians, the Old Ones are going to obliterate them for us,” says Emma, and now she’s not bothering to look anything but awed. “That’s ballsy, Rogers.”

Steve pauses to breathe for a moment through the massiveness of his own insolence.

“Victory belongs to the meanest fucker,” he says decisively, taking liberties on Napoleon.

Emma raises her eyebrows again, but the look she levels him with is wry. “Remind me to never piss you off, Paladin.”

“Oh no, ma’am,” Steve says politely, accepting her offered arm as they set off down the corridor together, “I’d be much too frightened to retaliate against you.”

Emma laughs, light but real, an undercut of steel lacing her tone. “Good answer.”

 

X

 

Erik screams and it cuts like a knife, like a Kaminoan bolt of lightning that sears through the foggy haze that has hung thick and heavy over Charles since regaining consciousness after enduring hell, igniting a fire where before there only remained ashes, brighter and hotter than a quasar and his eyes snap all the way open as he rolls up into a half-crouch, snatching the phaser rifle out of Sean’s hands, the CO’s grip giving easily in shock, before swinging the barrel around, aiming, and firing.

The Nyrulian on top of Erik goes down with a burn hole the size of a fist in the chest and the body has barely hit the ground before Charles has lurched up to his feet, stumbling, clumsy, a lot of nerve endings sparking in pain—but none of it matters, not when Charles has a few scant feet to cross before he can half-collapse back down at Erik’s side. His knees hit the ground and he pitches forward, covering Erik’s body with his own, a small, strangled sound forcing its way out past his lips in pain and exertion.

“Erik,” he says, his blood rushing loudly in his ears and he feels light-headed even with adrenaline coursing through him, fighting to stay lucid and only hanging on by the barest of threads, “Erik, oh god, Erik, Hank, _Hank_ —”

Erik’s face is pale and he’s bleeding too fast, too _fast_ , just like before and Charles has to remember to keep breathing, drawing in a sharp, jagged breath as Hank and Sean unfreeze and catch up, Sean hoisting the rifle back up that Charles has dropped and standing over them to provide cover while Hank gets straight to work on Erik’s arm, brow furrowed in concentration even as his hand movements remain precise and steady as he pulls out a knife and shreds Erik’s sleeve to make a tourniquet.

Charles tries desperately not to look, but he looks all the same, and he can see blood and red and the wet white gleam of bone, shards of it amongst shockingly red flesh, stomach-turning, horrifying, unforgettable.

“Erik,” Charles says firmly, even though Hank is saying something and Sean is answering and somewhere in the background Alex and Armando are shouting as they close ranks in front of them, between them and the Nyrulians, “Erik, wake up. Wake up.” He has to pause, inhale another shaky breath, full-body tremors making his muscles quiver as he holds himself up. He inhales the scent of burnt flesh and clothes, the tang of overheated enclosed air that accompanies many phasers shot in quick succession in a small space, and the teeth-aching metallic scent of fresh blood abundantly spilled. “Wake him up.”

Hank makes a grim sound but pulls out a hypospray and jabs it into the side of Erik’s neck before his hands move back to staunching blood loss. For a moment Charles stares, gaze stuck on all the slick, wet red of Erik’s blood and without realizing it he starts to sway, dizzy and ill at the sight of Erik’s blood running again, just like last time, with Erik bleeding out on the deck and Charles thought he was dead until now but it’s happening again and he can’t lose Erik, not again, not _again_ , not after they just finally found each other alive, he won’t survive his heart being wrenched in half for a second time—

Erik’s eyes crack open, glimmering slivers of gunmetal grey against his pale face, and Charles exhales, lungs aching with release.

“Charles,” Erik says, his voice heavy and slow, and Hank has to pin his wounded arm down when Erik automatically moves to reach for him.

“I’m here,” Charles breathes, fumbling around for Erik’s other hand and gripping it tightly. Dimly he’s aware that around them the fighting has ceased but he doesn’t look up to see what’s happening, not when Erik is struggling to regain consciousness and their gazes have locked and it’s like being thrown a lifeline—how could he focus on anything else?

“Charles,” Erik says again, but it’s not delirious repetition as Charles watches Erik visibly claw his way through shock and pain and manages to get out deliberately through gritted teeth, “She awaits your command, Deputy.”

“Sir,” Charles returns, unblinking, and just like that he feels himself center, a blanket of calm falling across him and keeping him steady. This, he thinks with something a lot like relief, for what little of it he is at this point capable of experiencing, this he knows. Command, duty, the certainty and steadiness that comes with knowing what’s to be done next.

“I’ve stopped the bleeding for now but we need to get him to a med bay,” Hank reports in a low voice, though Charles can feel the CMO eyeing him critically as well, “the hypospray is the only thing keeping him going and that’s not going to last forever.”

“He said for life,” Erik says, still looking at Charles intently, and very suddenly several things line up in Charles’ head like planets aligning in legends of old, the heavens clear with sharp purpose.

“I understand,” he answers, and Erik lets out a small breath that could be a sigh of relief.

“Well, well,” says a voice into the quiet, making Charles jerk his head up, “ain’t this just one big, happy reunion.”

Victor Creed emerges through the cluster of Nyrulians still standing, pushing his way to the front where Alex and Armando stand guard, coming to a stop a foot away from them. The plebes—Warriors, Charles reminds himself distantly—hold their ground, waiting for orders.

“Usually when I kill someone, they stay dead,” Creed says mildly, glittering eyes looking over Erik. There’s something like an emotion there, but a detached and distant one—mild curiosity, or even some sort of reproof, not quite annoyance, nothing as intense as irritation. “What the fuck makes you so special, I wonder?”

Erik huffs out a breath, and Charles quickly moves back to help him sit up. Between him and Hank they manage to get Erik upright, both Charles and Erik leaning heavily against each other just to stay that way. They might not be standing, but they’re still facing Creed together.

“It’ll take someone of a higher caliber than _you_ to bring me down,” Erik says, all sharp teeth and haughty arrogance even as he looks up at Creed from a position of disadvantage with blood-soaked bandages wrapped around the end of his arm where a hand used to be, and Charles could burst with pride for the strength of his Commander, his lover, his best friend.

Creed’s expression darkens at once, a shocking and somewhat disconcerting twist into a nasty sneer. “I could have you destroyed right now.”

“But you won’t,” Charles says with calm certainty, speaking up from beside Erik, “you’ll take us to Kurt Marko.” He feels Erik stiffen beside him, most likely in reaction to the news that Kurt Marko is here in person, but he otherwise remains silent and makes no protest.

Creed’s gaze shifts to Charles, switching from rage to cold malice in the blink of an eye. A tornado could hardly hope to change directions as fast as this man’s moods. “They did a number on you, didn’t they, dollface,” he says, and despite himself Charles feels a cold chill creep up his spine as his mind skirts around things he’d rather not remember at all, shying away like a wounded animal, “I can see it in your eyes. Wish I could’ve been there, to hear you when you started to scream—”

“No,” Charles says when Erik jerks with a wordless snarl, squeezing the biceps of his uninjured arm in warning. Erik stills even as Creed smirks, and Charles takes a deep breath. Calm. He’s trembling again just at the vaguest thought about what he’s had to endure, but he cannot afford to go to pieces about it now. Not yet. Not _yet_. “The Markos will want us alive. _All_ of us.”

Erik glances at him, nothing more than a brief flicker of his eyes, and Charles dips his chin in a slight nod. Based on what Erik has already told him, Erik knows this is about the Heartsteel, which is good. It means he and Erik are on the same page.

The real test will be to see if anyone _else_ is—and Erik’s already given him the answer to that too.

It’s practically novel, to be the one holding all the cards this time.

“Drop your weapons,” Creed snaps, clearly unhappy with the knowledge that Charles is right. In fact it’s only partially true—only Charles and Erik are of significance to the Markos, but Creed doesn’t need to know that and Charles will protect Hank, Sean, Alex, and Armando for as long as he possibly can.

“Drop them,” Charles says with calm finality, and Alex, Armando, and Sean only hesitate for a moment before letting their weapons fall to the ground.

“I understand that now isn’t exactly the time,” Hank hisses as the Nyrulians move forward, “but _both of you are compromised_ —”

“Hank,” Erik interrupts him wearily, “protocol is dead.”

“I can see that,” Hank says acridly as a Nyrulian jerks him up to his feet.

Charles closes his eyes and grits his teeth when it’s his turn to be pulled to his feet, letting go of Erik reluctantly and only to avoid Erik potentially getting jostled if the Nyrulians decide to take the initiative to separate them more roughly—even though he’d like to keep holding onto Erik and never let go.

Erik is alive. Behind his eyelids his eyes threaten to water, and for a moment he’s dizzy with near-delirious emotional overload, stardust trying to settle in the aftermath of a supernova. Erik is _alive_. He’s been living a waking nightmare for what feels now like an eternity believing that Erik was gone, that he’d never see Erik again, but now—but now. _Erik is alive._

“Charles,” Erik says immediately from somewhere behind him when Charles is physically unable to hold in a ragged, shaky breath in sheer relief, overwhelmed by the simple fact that holds more meaning to him than all the stars combined that Erik is still living and breathing and _here_ with him again—he came all this way for Charles, deep into enemy territory and risking everything because he refused to give up hope that he could find Charles again; because that’s how Erik is, dogged and stubborn and loyal to those who have his regard until the very end. Victor Creed did not kill Erik then, and he will not kill Erik now.

It’s not the end, Charles thinks as he opens his eyes again, _not yet_.

“I’m alright,” he answers, which isn’t true at all but for all intents and purposes is good enough for now, “I’ll be alright.”

The Nyrulians are quick to shuffle them all into a lose formation in order to parade them all up the hallway, blasters held pointedly in each of their directions to dissuade any ideas of escape. Charles’ entire body aches all over and his exhaustion runs bone deep, twisting down through his very marrow and weighing on him like lead, but he keeps himself as tall and straight-backed as he can between the two Nyrulian guards who flank him, clammy hands wrapped around his biceps as he limps along between them. His leg throbs, the sensation terribly familiar as it refuses to support his full weight, and by the time they’ve only gone a few steps Charles is already gritting his teeth while black spots swirl across his vision, his breathing shallow and irregular with effort as he struggles to keep up with the long-legged Nyrulians’ pace. _I will not faint_ , he thinks stubbornly, _I will not faint, I will not faint, I will not faint_. _I will give you nothing else._

His thoughts, at least, are streamlined and focused, honed in on taking one step at a time as Creed leads their party the rest of the way down the corridor and into a large lift, cramming all six of them inside plus as many of the Nyrulians that will fit. If he survives this, he thinks distantly, if he lives, only then will he have the luxury of allowing himself to process what he’s undergone, what he’s survived in the dark depths of this hellish place. He can go to pieces then, fly apart at the seams and come completely undone and then _heal_ , hopefully, and come to terms with things bit by bit and put himself back together again.

But right now, as the lift begins to rise and Charles leans back against the wall to keep himself standing, locking eyes with Erik who stands across from him, he doesn’t have that kind of time. He knows that the longer he puts it off the worse it’ll be when he finally does break, but he simply cannot afford to go to pieces. Not now when Erik came all this way—and Hank, Sean, Armando, Alex, and no doubt the entire rest of the crew, which makes Charles’ throat close up a little with heart-aching fondness for these people, his _family_ —to find him.

Erik is deathly pale and holds his injured arm against his chest with his remaining hand in a knuckle-white grip, but his eyes are sharp and clear as he holds Charles’ gaze, an entire universe of meaning passing between them even in the heavy silence. He’s always known what Erik means, even in a vacuum of spoken word.

_She awaits your command, Deputy_ , Charles thinks as the lift comes to a stop and the doors slide open. Erik’s given him all their pieces on the board and handed him the dice.

All that’s left to do now is roll them.

 

X

 

Scott and Logan each slowly sit back in their chairs again, letting out a collective long breath of air. It’s the first sound to break the heavy silence that has settled over the bridge ever since Erik’s vital signs went haywire, spiking up so drastically that for a moment Scott had thought that this is it, here it is, he’s just going to be sitting here on his ass like a fuckface and watch his Commander die via a heart rate monitor with no way of knowing what the fuck is actually going on, but then Erik had stabilized before their eyes, leveling out at not an entirely normal platform, but still alive.

His eyes flicker to Alex’s own set of vitals on display but they remain constant and strong, and Scott lets out another breath.

“Well,” Logan says very, very calmly, “thank fuck for McCoy, right?”

“Carry on,” Acting Captain Rasputin says faintly from behind them, “hold steady.” Everyone slowly swivels back around from where they’d all been staring white-faced at the main screen to continue monitoring their stations, but the atmosphere on the bridge remains no less tense.

“This is so fucking stupid,” Scott repeats. His fists hurt from where he’s clenched them so hard. Everyone on the away team is still alive, but whatever just happened has them spooked—all of their heart rates are even more elevated than they’d started with, and blood pressures are up—and all the rest of them stuck on the Heartsteel that sits hidden on the back of a particularly large asteroid have no way to tell what the _fuck_ just happened.

“Erik’s hurt,” Logan mutters beside him, even as he rechecks his positioning for probably the hundred thousandth time.

“He’s fine,” Scott snaps tersely. Erik had _better_ fucking be fine. “McCoy did his fucking job and Erik is fucking _fine_.”

“Mm,” Logan grunts from around his cigar, fingers sliding up and down across his touchscreen panels, constantly adjusting the Heartsteel’s position degree by degree to keep her perfectly hidden as the asteroid they’re using as shelter spins slowly. “Alex’s vitals are fine.”

“I know,” Scott hisses, “I have eyes too, I fucking see them.”

“Then relax, asshole.”

“Don’t _fucking_ tell me to relax when—”

“Scott,” Logan says, and Scott stops. There’s a pause of silence taken up only by the soft pinging of Raven’s best sensors. He gets the vague impression of everyone else on the bridge trying very hard to pretend like they’re not all eavesdropping.

“He was lying,” Scott says in a low voice, soft enough to carry only to Logan’s sharp ears.

Logan glances at him, eyebrow cocked.

“You asked him if he was planning on finding Charles, or if he was planning on dying,” Scott says, gaze drifting back to the large displays of the away team’s vitals on the main screen. It’s all they have to go by that Erik, Sean, Hank, Armando, and Alex are even still alive and that the mission hasn’t failed yet. Things would be so much fucking simpler if they could at least maintain voice contact through the comms but at that rate they might as well have sailed right on in with the Heartsteel and landed on top of one of those nasty-looking building spires to announce themselves. “Maybe he didn’t get hurt. Maybe he just found Charles.”

Logan doesn’t answer, but out of the corner of his eye Scott can see his jaw tense, because Logan knows just as well as Scott does that odds are Charles is already dead and if Erik has found Charles’ body, well. Erik might help get the rest of the away team back off the planet and onto the Heartsteel but he himself won’t be coming back. It pisses Scott off how Erik wouldn’t even say it to their goddamn faces, like he thinks that they don’t fucking _know_.

“Where the fuck is Wade,” Logan mutters, which would be fucking hilarious in any other situation because Logan never backs down from a conversation, it’s always Scott who changes the subject while Logan just fucking keeps on pushing it and pushing it but maybe he really does have limits on depressing shit like this and Scott could just fucking light up the whole damn star system with Raven’s biggest guns if only to let out some of this fucking helpless rage that he’s feeling, sitting trapped here in his goddamn seat watching his brother’s and commander’s heartbeats reduced to blips on a line.

“Who gives a fuck.”

“You saw him waltzing out of Erik’s office before we went in earlier,” Logan snarls under his breath, which is true, yeah, Wade had come fucking bouncing out of Erik’s office singing about rainstorms like a goddamn lunatic, “and he ain’t here now. They’ve got something planned.”

“Then I hope they both know what the fuck they’re doing,” Scott says frankly, and who gives a shit if his voice has gotten a little loud again, because yeah, he’s behind Erik and he _gets_ it, he really does, but he’s allowed to be fucking _furious_ with him too for not taking into account how the rest of them feel, “which I don’t find very fucking likely.”

“Shit, Summers,” Logan has the audacity to reply with a snort, “if there’s anyone down there on that goddamn planet who will have any idea as to what the fuck he’s doing, it’ll be Charles.”

“If he’s alive,” Scott can’t help but add, even though he agrees.

“Yeah,” Logan nods, “if he’s alive, and if he’s still fucking sane.”

 

X

 

Creed leads the way into Kurt and Cain’s private box seats for the Nyrulian arena below, Charles and Erik shoved in first after him while Hank, Sean, Alex, and Armando are corralled in next. The little room is high above the general seating of the arena and its view encompasses the entire sandy pit, no doubt so that not a single moment of bloodshed can go unseen.

“Found a little something you might like,” Creed drawls, and Charles lurches forward automatically when the bounty hunter fists a hand in Erik’s shirt and yanks him towards the Markos, stopped from going after them only by the Nyrulians tightening their grip on his arms.

“War-Prince Erik Lehnsherr,” Kurt Marko says, an odd mixture of surprise and satisfaction crossing his face as he rises from his plush chair. “We thought you were dead.” His eyes dart to Charles for half a second, there and gone.

“The next time you want a ship,” Erik says, and Charles can’t see his expression but his voice is low and dangerous with fierce, searing anger held just barely at bay from lashing out like a solar flare and burning them all to a crisp, “you go through her _captain_.”

“An unfortunate mix up,” Kurt says smoothly in false, empty apology, looking him up and down greedily. Seeing Erik standing alive in front of him has breathed new life into Kurt just as it had for Charles, though for reasons entirely different. “I must admit, the Keflars were clever to give you each the opposite code that one would expect. Knowing Charles as I do, I—”

“You don’t know him at all,” Erik cuts him off coldly, and Charles draws in a shaky breath, “you know _nothing_ about him.”

“I don’t really care,” Cain says while Kurt’s mouth works soundlessly in taken-aback shock. Like his father, Cain’s eyes glitter with triumph. “You should’ve just stayed dead, _Captain_. But thanks for coming all this way after Charlie and hand-delivering yourself and your ship right to us.”

“The Heartsteel isn’t here,” Erik answers flatly, “she’s in the custody of Starfleet. I’ve already surrendered the Keflar tech to the Earth Empire.”

“You’re lying,” Cain says with a wide smirk, leaning in close to Erik’s face, “there’s no way you could’ve crossed into Nyrulian space to make it this far without using your ship’s tech. You would’ve been destroyed before you could make it a hundred light years.”

Erik doesn’t bat an eye. “Bright Morning Sun Rising Over the Tall Craggy Mountains While the Silvery Mist Curls Gently Through the Trees on a Light Breeze that Wafts the Smell of the Cooling Pie Sitting on the Windowsill Throughout the Entire Log Cabin.”

Cain pulls back and despite himself Charles has to fight not to let out a single burst of breathless, feverish laughter at the look on his stepbrother’s face. “What the hell?”

Kurt looks just as equally confused at the seemingly completely out-of-place and nonsensical statement, but it’s Creed who gives the largest reaction, his head whipping up and his entire demeanor stiffening. “ _You_ know Deadpool?”

“Not entirely,” Erik answers calmly, turning his head to address the bounty hunter and now Charles can see the terrifying look Erik levels at Creed, unwavering and chilling for it, “but Charles does.”

“Is this that other bounty hunter again?” Cain demands, but he remains ignored as Creed turns to Charles.

“You captured me from his ship after Tony and I escaped, as I’m sure you recall,” Charles says, dimly aware of Hank, Sean, Alex, and Armando all watching him intently, though fortunately they all have the sense to keep their expressions neutral, “surely you recognized him then.”

Creed bares his teeth. “Well he’s not here now,” he snarls, throwing an arm out to gesture at everyone gathered in the room, “is he? He’s the least reliable bounty hunter in the business so you’re out of luck.”

“Then I wonder,” Charles says blandly, “why you seem so afraid of him.”

“He’s a fucking nutcase,” Creed growls, speaking mostly to Kurt and Cain now in explanation, “uses fucking _swords_. But he’s completely useless. If he’s their way out, we don’t have to worry about it. He’s probably already long gone. His ship,” he admits grudgingly, “would be capable of getting in and out like that.”

Cain laughs but Kurt narrows his eyes, studying Erik’s face intently. Erik’s expression remains perfectly blank—except for the telling tightness around his eyes, the only sign of pain he shows—as he stares back. Unfortunately, Charles knows, Kurt isn’t nearly as dim-witted as his son, and several things probably aren’t lining up quite right in Kurt’s mind, but Creed has unwittingly helped them in this case—Charles can see the doubt creeping back into Kurt’s eyes.

“Search the port for Deadpool’s ship,” Kurt orders, “and make sure you’re thorough.”

“Half of you, with me,” Creed snaps at the silent Nyrulian guards, and with one last ugly sneer in Charles’ direction, he and his squadron of Nyrulians file back out of the room and are gone.

Charles’ gaze flickers around the room once. Creed’s departure has left them alone with Kurt, Cain, and five Nyrulians—one guarding each of them except for Erik, who stands alone directly in front of the Markos. Charles exhales slowly.

“If Mr. Creed doesn’t locate a ship on the ground, we’ll have the immediate airspace searched,” Kurt says conversationally into the silence, “and if still that fails, we’ll search the orbit field. This Deadpool may be unreliable in the bounty hunter world, but I doubt you would have employed him if there was a chance he’d leave you high and dry. And,” he adds pointedly, “perhaps we’ll find that the Heartsteel is close by after all.”

“We’re useless to you if the Heartsteel isn’t here,” Charles says when Erik doesn’t respond right away, swaying a little where he stands. No matter what Hank injected him with, Erik’s lost too much blood to keep this up for long, no matter how hard he fights to remain seemingly unaffected.

“ _You’ve_ been useless all along,” Cain sneers, rounding on him at once, “and what’s your point? You think we’ll just let you go? I highly doubt that the honorable Starfleet would forsake one of its top officers. Lehnsherr will be our bargaining chip.”

“Clearly you’ve never met Paladin Fury before,” Erik says, recovering a little and steadying himself. “Or if you have, which I’m sure of seeing as you were under his direct custody while you were still on the Strontium, you’re not very good at reading a man’s character. But we knew that already.” He has to pause for breath, but then continues on relentlessly. “Fury has the Heartsteel and you have me and Charles. I can assure you with great confidence that Fury isn’t going to budge from his position or cut any deals, and evidently neither are you. You have no further options left to pursue. You have _lost_.”

“That’s two failures in a row,” Charles takes the opportunity to remind them, “first you delivered the Nyrulians me, and now you have Erik, but still no ship or tech. I doubt the Visser is going to take the news very well.”

“Starfleet will bargain for you,” Kurt says, but his hands have drifted up to adjust his tie needlessly, “they’re not going to abandon two of their top officers—”

“Starfleet branded Charles a traitor as soon as your son escaped the Strontium,” Erik interrupts him coldly, “and I’m currently AWOL. They’ll want us back, surely, so that they can administer their own punishment and ensure that we don’t leak any other information to the Nyrulians, but Starfleet isn’t going to hand over the only remaining Keflar tech in the universe for two traitors.”

“We’re useless to you,” Charles repeats, “and if you have any humanity left in you, you’ll let us go.” He already knows the answer he’ll get and is already bracing himself for the inevitable, but he still has to try because even now, after everything he’s been through, he still can’t fathom why or how Kurt and Cain Marko can so easily discard the Earth Empire or humanity—their own _species_ —and sentence six of their own to die by Nyrulian means.

Cain laughs, a savage, barely-human sound as he pulls a phaser off his belt. “You think we’ll just let you walk away? You think that _they’ll_ just let you walk away?” He gestures at the still-silent Nyrulian guards, who are no doubt cataloging everything that’s being said. “You’re stupider than I thought, Charlie, or is it just that the torture addled your brains—”

Erik launches himself forward at Cain with a snarl while at the exact same time Charles throws himself sideways into the Nyrulian beside him, which Hank, Sean, Alex, and Armando all take as the signal to attack too, and all hell breaks loose.

A blast goes off and Charles doesn’t know whether it was from Cain or one of the Nyrulians but all he focuses on is knocking his target’s long, spindly legs out from beneath him, sending them both crashing down to the ground in a tangled heap. Charles’ bad leg gives a twinge painful enough to send more black spots swirling across his vision so half-blinded and with a ragged gasp Charles throws himself more on top of the struggling Nyrulian and latches onto the blaster in his hands.

The Nyrulian hisses something in garbled Standard, keeping a hold on the blaster with one hand while taking a swing at Charles with the other. Charles flinches but gets his arm up in time to shield his face, knocking the Nyrulian’s limb back and grabbing back onto the blaster with both hands again. The Nyrulian tries to roll them over to gain more leverage but Charles yanks hard on the blaster, tilting them in the opposite direction and negating their motion into the other. The Nyrulian hisses again, and this time goes for the trigger, and Charles keeps his grip on the blaster even as he flings himself wildly to the side, hot plasma shooting centimeters past his face and into the ceiling above, and that’s when something blows.

Dust and smoke rains down onto them, thick and heavy and impossible to see through; another blast rings out and someone screams though he can’t tell whether it was human or alien. Charles takes advantage of the Nyrulian’s disorientation brought on by both the mini-explosion and the uncertainty as to whether he actually hit Charles or not in the first place and finally wrestles the blaster all the way out of his hands, spins it around, and fires. The Nyrulian drops, sizzling, and Charles gags at the smell and rolls off, coughing.

More sounds of fighting surround him but he can’t see a thing through the smoke, and while he hopes that the others are unharmed the only person he wants to find is Erik. He grits his teeth as he pushes himself back up to his feet using the blaster as a lever, stumbling blindly forward through the smog in what he thinks is the right direction, towards where Erik, Cain, and Kurt should be.

“Erik!” he shouts, keeping the blaster half-raised in front of himself because whoever he runs into first has good chance of being either friend or foe—

Someone stumbles out of the smoke and collides with him head-on, their heavier mass sending him reeling backwards. He hits the ground on his back, head slamming into the floor with a thud that makes his vision spin and he groans weakly in pain from the impact and his leg, which along with the rest of him is being crushed by whoever’s on top of him. The blaster is pulled away and tossed to the side and Charles _can’t see_ and two hands are fisting into the front of his shirt, shaking him for a moment as if to check if he’s still alive.

Kurt Marko stumbles back up to his feet and pulls Charles up with him, half-dragging him along through the smoke and Charles tries to struggle out of his grip but everything hurts and he’s coughing from the smoke and Kurt won’t _let go_ —

They burst through the door of the press box room and stagger out into the hallway beyond, and Charles finally manages to tug himself loose from Kurt’s grip but can’t make it far away enough to evade Kurt’s lunge, and both of them go toppling down once more. Charles lands on his back again with Kurt on top him, who has less fallen and more collapsed as he presses forward, his weight pinning Charles down in place.

Charles tenses, scrambling to untangle at least his arms so that he has a chance at fighting back, but then he realizes that Kurt isn’t reaching for his throat, and instead grabs Charles by the face, forcing his head back so that they’re directly face-to-face, so close that Charles can see his own wide-eyed reflection staring back at himself in Kurt’s eyes.

And then he smells the burning flesh and feels the hot, sticky blood smearing across his front and looks down in horror.

Kurt has a large, gaping burn hole in his stomach, insides seared away by plasma and quickly bleeding out as he starts to fold forward and down. Charles bucks, panicking by sheer reaction and trying to wrench himself free and get away but Kurt keeps his grip on him even as he dies, eyes wide and staring as he chokes on his own breath, stuttering, “Charles—Charles—”

Charles kicks him off with a whimper even as Kurt falls still, dragging himself backwards away from the body of his stepfather frantically across the floor, until his back hits the opposite wall of the hallway. He’s shaking, he registers dimly as he stares at Kurt in shock, and then he catches another waft of burning flesh and leans over to retch.

Mere seconds have passed when he sits up blearily again to wipe his mouth, swaying woozily even in his crumpled position pressed back against the wall. Alarms are sounding and smoke from the room is billowing out into the hallway, clearing the air a little inside, and Charles can make out Hank and Sean as they stumble out together, almost tripping over Kurt’s body.

Hank sees Charles first and rushes over. The CMO has a split lip and Sean is clutching a Nyrulian blaster of his own, the front of his shirt is smeared with alien blood, but both of them seem otherwise unharmed. “Charles—”

“I’m fine, none of it’s mine,” Charles says, and gratefully accepts the offered hand up. Hank and Sean both grab him when his legs don’t work properly right away and he nearly ends up folding back down to the floor again, and he gives them a short nod in thanks.

“None of this was in the plan, by the way,” Hank says matter-of-factly, “just so you’re aware.”

“Erik and I are grateful for your improvisation,” Charles says absently, shrugging out of their grip. The press box room is still clouded with heavy smoke, and it’s impossible to see more than two feet in. Without giving Sean and Hank warning Charles snatches the blaster out of Sean’s hands and takes off, stepping around Kurt’s body and moving as fast as he can back into the smoky room beyond.

Hank shouts his name somewhere behind him but Charles doesn’t check to see if they’re following, concentrating on making his way back through the smoke, jaw locked in an effort to stave off the pain of forcing himself to keep going, eyes constantly scanning for any sign of Erik, because that’s the only thought running through his mind—find Erik, find Erik, find Erik.

“Erik!” he calls again, coughing, and he can hear Sean and Hank calling for Alex and Armando, both of them answering, but he doesn’t hear anything back from—

A cough, weak but familiar, and Charles drops the blaster when he finally sees Erik, down on the floor and curled on his side against one of the overturned chairs, but alive.

“Charles,” Erik says raggedly when Charles drops down beside him, slinging one of his arms over his shoulders, “Cain’s still—somewhere—lost track of him—”

“Into the hallway,” Charles says, straining to pull both himself and Erik to their feet, “come on, come on—”

Erik gets his long legs back underneath himself and together they drag themselves back towards the doorway, panting heavily and leaning on each other for support. They make it past the threshold and stumble back out into the corridor, managing a few extra steps before they both collapse as one. All the breath in Charles’ lungs whooshes out and for a moment he’s stunned, dazed and trying to catch his breath.

“Are you alright,” he asks breathlessly, pushing himself up to look Erik up and down, because oh god if Erik got hit by a blaster again—

“Fine, fine,” Erik mutters, sitting up as well. His face is white as a sheet and the makeshift bandages around his wrist have come slightly unraveled, stained dark red as the wound is free to bleed again. Erik’s good hand comes up to feel across Charles’ front clumsily. “Are you—”

“Not mine,” Charles says, catching his hand and bringing it up to press against his cheek, closing his eyes in relief and leaning into the touch, “I’m fine too.”

Erik lets out a weak puff of air that’s probably meant to be a laugh because neither of them are at all fine where they crouch together in a hallway with barely enough strength to keep themselves up, but all he does is lean forward enough to press his forehead against Charles’ and breathe in, shifting his hand to cup Charles’ cheek more naturally.

They stay like this even though they can’t afford linger, smoke gradually thinning in the air around them as the alarm continues to blare and Hank, Sean, Armando, and Alex emerge out into the hallway as well, coughing and cursing but all four of them still alive and unharmed.

“Charles,” Erik begins to say, pulling back slightly as Charles opens his eyes again, “we—”

“ _You_ ,” a voice snarls, and Hank, Sean, Alex, and Armando form a defensive line in front of the doorway as Cain emerges from the wreckage of the press box, Nyrulian blaster in his hands. His gaze is initially locked on Charles and Erik but then flickers to the body of his father on the ground, stopping him in his tracks. “You killed him.”

There are many running footsteps approaching and Hank, Sean, Armando, and Alex are all looking at Charles and Erik nervously for instruction, but Charles can only remain frozen where he sits as Cain slowly turns towards him, taking in the red blood splattered down the front of his shirt.

“You killed him,” Cain repeats, taking a halting step forward, eyes glittering, “you _killed my father_ —”

“I didn’t,” Charles whispers blankly, because he _didn’t_ , that’s actually all he can think about—he half-wishes he had, in a cold and detached, fractured sort of way—and Erik is slowly sliding in front of him like a shield as Cain takes another step towards them, bearing down on them slowly, “I—”

“I’ll make you pay,” Cain snarls, and Charles grabs Erik’s arm and pulls him back again as Cain swings his blaster up to aim and pulls the trigger—

 

X

 

“I can’t fucking believe this,” says Tony, pacing. “Can you fucking believe this? He fucking locked me up again. Unbelievable.”

“You keep using that word,” mutters Steve distractedly. “I don’t think it means what you think it means.”

Tony glares at him silently for long enough that Steve deigns to lift his head from the tabletop and actually look at him. He’s still slightly miffed that Fury hadn’t allowed him to stand in on the transmission that Frost, Fury, and Steve had made to the closest Gandorians. While it’s true Tony probably could’ve hacked his way into getting himself a livestream of the transmission, the Gandorians probably would’ve picked up on that. No need to piss the Old Ones off more than they were already going to.

That had been an hour ago.

In the pale light form the worktable beneath Steve’s face is shadowed and his eyes look more like tinted glass than the deep and true blue they usually are. It washes out his coloring so his skin is white and his lips colorless. A sliver of unease curls through Tony like a wash of cold down his spine. He wishes Steve would move away from that light.

“Ionstar, lights at ninety-five percent,” he orders absently, and watches with some relief as Steve’s skin starts to look healthier under the increased lightning.

Steve’s face makes that small, complicated little gesture that suggests he’d be arching his eyebrow, had he not trained himself out of the habit early into his military career. It’s not noticeable, not at all, but Tony knows Steve better than he knows himself. Or he did, once. Tony remembers that Steve controls every last gesture on his face when he’s working on a problem he can’t quite figure out—a tendency to keep everything contained within himself to eliminate outside distractions and concentrate on the matter at hand. Steve’s attention is like a phaser beam; powerful, focused, undeviating.

“You’re not locked up, Tony.”

“Right. ‘Stay inside this fucking room’ sure translates to freedom.”

Steve’s jaw muscles move slightly in irritation. “This isn’t a jail cell. It’s just containment, and it’s just so that he can keep an eye on you.”

“This is a high-tech _battle station_ , they can track me in every corner!” Tony throws up his hands in a wide and expressive gesture, occupying all the space Steve has retreated out of.

The fire he poured into the kiss before is gone. Steve’s withdrawn, folded back into his skin like the starlight behind a closed door. Tony knows how Steve’s mind works and he knows Steve needs to be inside himself to figure out how to get them out of the fucking mess they’re in, but he can’t help but feel abandoned and cast aside.

Tony’s scared and Steve is too busy saving them to notice, and okay, yeah, Tony knows how fucked up that is, but Tony Stark never sold himself to anyone as a good person, and if anybody ever thought he was…that was their mistake, not Tony’s.

“Not that I need supervision,” he sulks. “What am I gonna do, hack into the mainframe and steal secrets I’m pretty sure I already know anyway, when we’re on the brink of a fucking interstellar war? Where’s the trust!?”

Steve look at him for a long moment, face impassive. The fascinating thing is Tony can see him navigate the conversation to its inevitable conclusion as quickly as a phaser beam slices through the air. He can’t follow Steve’s mind from thought to thought—no one can—but he can see him analyzing all the tangents they can go into, watching them from every angle like a 3D architecture interface, rotating them to explore every argument crevice.

What Steve chooses to say is, “Technically you’ve already done something like that today, to send out that transmission. But you have to earn trust, Tony. It doesn’t form itself out of thin air just because one time you wanted to be convinced into helping us.”

He leaves Tony to chew on that as he turns his attention, laser-like, back to the table, fingers dancing over the touchscreen surface. Tony stares at the top of his head, then at the sharp and graceful movement of his hands as he pulls the charts out of the screen into the projector above the table and spreads them around himself in the air, a blue-eyed sun surrounded by studs of silver-blue light. They spin slowly around him, his eyes darting around to each one as he catalogues possibilities.

“Do _you_ trust me?” Tony snaps abruptly, startling himself. He immediately wishes he hadn’t asked. It’s a stupid and childish question, and he already knows the answer anyway.

Steve’s gone very still, and his face turns slowly to Tony like he’s dragging himself back out of his skull to pay attention to this, like he’s really putting in the effort to register Tony as more than a satellite distraction.

Because he’s a miserable person, Tony feels a thrill of adoration at the fact Steve can claw his way back from intense tactics study for him.

Except fuck, there’s no way Tony wants to hear the answer to this. He waves a hand and shakes his head in dismissal, but Steve’s eyes are sharp and clear and his full mouth is relaxing from the hard, severe line it turns into when he’s waist-deep in thought, smoothing into his usual barely-there pout. Tony should probably stop staring at Steve’s mouth. Now would be a good time.

“I trust you to understand how stupid that question is,” he says quietly.

Tony stares at him, at his deep blue eyes, the beloved curve of his expressive eyebrows, the shape of his full lips, the masculine and elegant line of his long neck, his head always held high and proud. He thinks back years into the past when Steve would put aside his control, surrender himself to whatever Tony’s whim was at the time, always within the lines of his own moral compass—the moral compass he used to steer Tony true.

That was what Steve did—what he still does—show Tony where the lines are, whether he chooses to paint inside or outside of them.

Tony’s breath is catching thin, pained somewhere high in his throat. Steve’s eyes shoot sharply up to him, alerted by a sound that must have escaped Tony. The Paladin rises swiftly, startlingly vaults over the fucking desk, and is immediately at Tony’s side, lowering him down to a nearby chair, squeezing his arms and murmuring soothingly.

Steve thinks he’s having a panic attack.

What Tony’s actually having is the world’s most inconvenient fucking epiphany. Tony left and he’s spent years, literally fucking years, bitterly resenting the fact Steve would not abandon his commission and come hide with him from the Nyrulians—never mind the fact he never explained, never mind that he gave Steve an ultimatum, never mind the fact he _knew_ he asked too much. He’d wanted Steve to prove himself to him, to stay with him, to stand fast as his side in whatever shitstorm Tony inevitably dragged him into, and when Steve had refused Tony had been furious and hurt and heartbroken.

But the truth is, and isn’t this funny, funny funny _funny_ , Steve did stand firm.

_Tony_ left.

They’d been having the same conversation all along and Steve had been giving Tony what Tony had asked of him—stay, stand by me, don’t leave me—and Tony had been too stubborn and blind to see it.

The sound that escapes through Tony’s throat is too shredded and harsh to be considered a sob, but it certainly can’t be called anything different. Steve doesn’t shush him, doesn’t tell him it’s alright—Steve never lies—he just rubs Tony’s arms slowly, crouching down on the deck of the Ionstar in the middle of deep space fucking nowhere, presses Tony’s face to his shoulder and lets him shake himself apart, shattering into a thousand shards in his arms.

That’s what Steve does, the golden-hearted idiot. He gives you what you need before you know you need it; he’s there when you need him when—

Tony straightens away like a trip-wire has been triggered, eyes wide as an idea dawns through him.

“Son of a bitch,” he breathes, mind racing. “Charles, you _son of a bitch_!”

Steve is giving him that expectant, sharp-eyed look he used to give him when he knew Tony needed him to stand ready and wait for the idea to crystallize into a course of action.

“Come on,” he says, shooting up to his feet and grabbing a fistful of Steve’s uniform at his shoulder, bodily dragging him out of the room as though he needs to be convinced to come along. “We have to talk to Fury. He’s going to be even more tired of our beautiful faces than ever after today.”

 

X

 

Henry Horatio McCoy, Chief Medical Officer aboard the starship TEF Heartsteel, honored graduate of the Interstellar Medical Academy in Inhubar IV, multiple PhD and Masters Graduate, specialist in complex xenobiology studies and surgery, multiple times champion of the Human Olympics in the categories of Sprint, Middle Distance, Long Distance, and Hurdles, watches it all happen in slow motion.

He doesn’t shut down. The first thing they teach you at the Academy in Inhubar is never shut down. Shutting down means losing lives. You do not shut down.

He compartmentalizes. The bright warm candle of his humanity goes into a little compartment in the back where it’s safely locked away. It’s been there now for well over an hour, since the moment he realized that the chances of finding Prince Xavier alive were low enough to be insignificant, and in the event they did find him alive, he was unlikely to make it out of the compound in any case, let alone off the planet and back onto the Heartsteel.

Things are easier to handle when you’re dealing with a dead man walking. Any improvement achieved upon their health and any second of successful sustained survival is a battle won against the inevitable outcome of a shipmate’s demise. Xavier’s death has been pushed back fifty-five minutes and counting. That’s fifty-five minutes Hank’s won over for him.

One minute is enough, they teach you. If eventually you lose: you still won that minute.

With his humanity locked away he can see events unfold around him with the keen senses of a creature unmoved by emotion or shock. He could tell from the moment Cain Marko barged through the doorway that Charles Xavier’s time in his mental clock had gone from green numbers in an increasing count to an abrupt and red halt. Can’t win back any minutes from a body with a phaser shot to the head.

It never occurs to Hank to jump in the way. That’s now what medics do. Medic save the heroes, they don’t sacrifice themselves for foolish actions that eventually lead nowhere rewarding. He’s needed alive and whole. He’s not the sort of man with the impulse to end his own life to save another one’s. He’s the one saving the lives.

It does, however, occur to someone else.

Cain Marko shoots and Hank’s sharp eyes follow the blast from muzzle—ejection velocity: unknown, heat: unknown, educated guess estimates at 345 degrees Celsius, damage: fatal—to target—

Contact at Armando Muñoz’s chest.

The end result is the same nevertheless. Instant death. What falls to the floor, crumpling in on itself, hitting: knees, thighs, chest-shoulders, face-down, is not Armando Muñoz but a lifeless body. Hank scratches one shipmate to look after off his mental list, re-focusing his attention to his remaining charges: recently mutilated War-Prince Lehnsherr, quickly deteriorating Prince Xavier, and Sean and Alex—both of whom are currently quickly going into panic.

Alex gets there first. He falls to his knees next to what was Armando and fists his hands on the body’s shirt, shaking him, throat too closed to scream yet. His blue eyes snap up to Hank. There’s nothing to do; no need for triage on a dead body. Hank is not needed here.

Something human and fragile behind a wall of glass tells him he should go there and kneel anyway. Turn the body. Check for a pulse. Attempt reanimation.

A waste of time. A medic doesn’t waste time.

He turns to Lehnsherr instead, gets to him in two quick strides and snatches up his arm, stabs his thumb into the vulnerable inside of the elbow above the mutilation site. Pinch the nerve; lessen the pain. He can do this, to this man.

Alex launches at Cain Marko, face twisted into murderous rage. Hank’s mind analyses the chances of success in this event: nil. Another scratch off the list.

Except Sean catches him around the waist and throws him to the floor, subduing him in three quick, easy maneuvers. Hank readjusts to the previous body-count: four.

He steps forward to pinch a nerve in Alex’s neck to help subdue him, but just then the Nyrulians flood the room. No point in calming Alex down now. Hank steps back and assumes support position at Xavier’s right side. This is where he’ll be needed most.

Time to be human later, if they survive.

Chances of survival: nil.


	14. Until the stars grow cold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are at last! Thank you all for sticking with us for almost two years now, and taking us for our word when we promised that this fic wasn't being dropped and would be finished. ;) _Please_ do let us know what you think, as we've been building up to this entire chapter ever since we first posted the prologue and we're both extremely excited to finally share it all with you guys. :)
> 
> No matter what happens in this chapter, it is in your best interest to stick around for the epilogue.
> 
> And, though this goes without saying at this point, **you have been warned.**

X

 

Flatline.

Complete stillness on the bridge.

Logan registers the meaning of this distantly, a wash of cold horror down the center of his chest and down the length of his spine. It’s like a chunk of ice has dropped into his stomach.

Flatline.

“Fuck,” breathes Scott, rising slowly from his chair.

Alex’ vitals are going haywire. He’s going into shock.

For once in his life, Logan is actually speechless. There’s nothing he can say. He can’t think of anything. Not one word.

“ _Fuck_ ,” repeats Scott, more viciously this time. A string of profanities in several languages follow. Logan tunes him out.

_Enough_ , he thinks, _that’s it. That’s it. That is the bloody mutherfucking cocksucking end of it_.

He taps his cigar on the glass interface in front of him, _plink plink plink_ , staring at the long, flat line that used to belong to one of their comrades.

No telling how long the remaining four are going to last.

 

X

 

His arm is numb.

He’s not sure whether or not to be relieved as he’s escorted by no less than four Nyrulians from the small medical room where his arm had been cleaned, all blood washed away, before the gaping wound on the end of his arm where his hand used to be was carefully sealed, bleeding stopped completely and fresh new dressings applied. They injected something into his arm which McCoy guesses was a numbing agent, but Erik didn’t feel anything because his arm was already numb. Maybe he’s thankful for it. Difficult to tell at this point what he’s feeling.

Erik examines the bandages distantly while he walks. It’s odd. It doesn’t even look like his own arm—certainly doesn’t feel like it belongs to him, though that may just be the numbness. His left hand is gone. It seems more like a dream than reality, and he’d believe it too if it weren’t for the memory of the overwhelming, consuming pain when he’d lost it. He wonders what it will feel like when the serum wears off, to flex his muscles. Will phantom fingers still curl? Will phantom pain still linger? He’ll be clumsy with any form of touchscreen interface, with only one hand.

Not that it entirely matters, he supposes, as there’s a very high chance he won’t live long enough to have to worry about it.

He’s taken to a sort of holding pen, wide and empty with only one other exit: a huge gate, closed for now, that no doubt leads into the arena floor. The room itself is dimly lit but bright light streams in through the cracks of the gate, and outside he can hear a crowd, much like the gathering of an oncoming storm.

He’s made to climb up onto a backless cart, strongly reminiscent of a chariot only instead of First Earth horses, this one is pulled by a hulking lizard-like creature, most likely poached from the desert region beyond the arena walls. Cuffs are slapped onto his wrists and then he’s given only a short lead line before the other end is chained to a bar across the front of the cart, giving him room enough to stand on his own but too short to allow him to step back down off the cart.

They really _are_ going to make a show out of this.

The doors he came through hiss open again but Erik doesn’t turn, standing up straight and tall and facing forward until someone else climbs up into the cart beside him and a body presses against his and Charles’ hands are being shackled into place as well.

“Erik,” Charles says, and Erik turns as much as his bindings will allow to lean into him and press close.

“Did they touch you again,” Erik asks him softly.

“Just had me change out of the bloody clothes.” He can feel Charles breathing, every inhale and exhale, and it nearly makes him want to scream. “Took a look at my leg. Gave me something so I wouldn’t limp as much. Need to be able to entertain the crowd.”

“Considerate,” Erik notes. Outside the gates the crowd is murmuring, a slowly building crescendo, and around them the Nyrulians are pacing, donning armor and conversing in their hissing dialect but none of it matters, not when the entire universe has narrowed down to their world of two. “I’m sorry.”

Charles pulls back slightly so that their eyes can meet. Even in the dim light his eyes are fathomless, entire galaxies swirling around the black of his pupils in the endless blue, hardened by pain and experience but soft as he gazes at Erik with quiet understanding. He knows why Erik’s apologizing, and for what. “I’m sorry too.”

Erik can only incline his head once, voice momentarily caught in his throat. Just as Charles knows, Erik knows too.

“It’s almost time.”

“I don’t regret this,” Erik says, finding his voice again, because this at least deserves to be said aloud and not left implicit between them, “I would have followed you through a black hole, I would have chased you to the center of the universe to the first singularity event in all of time and matter to find you again and stand next to you at the end.”

“You _did_ do that for me,” Charles answers softly as the gates to the arena begin to open, light pouring in as their cart begins to move forward with a lurch, “but there won’t be an end, because I’ll get you back out again.”

Erik kisses Charles to the roar of the crowd as they emerge out onto the sands of the arena, thousands upon thousands of Nyrulians and a smattering of other alien species cheering to see the subjects of the day’s slaughter, but all of that fades away and is secondary to the way he leans down and Charles leans up, the brush of their lips soft and tentative at first before one of them—maybe they both do, Erik doesn’t know—makes a small sound and then their mouths mold together in a slide of warm, wet heat as Erik kisses Charles with everything he has left, licking his way into Charles’ mouth and Charles parts his lips with a sigh, quiet but profound, like the last flash of light a supernova gives before fading gradually into the everlasting dark.

He kisses Charles and Charles kisses back, two tiny beings made of stardust arranged in just the exact right way, against all odds, to fit together perfectly.

They break apart slowly, gradually opening their eyes as the cart comes to a stop near the center of the arena, where the tall pillars stand waiting, holding eye contact as the Nyrulians move forward to unchain them from their tethers. Erik has no idea what his own face looks like but Charles is radiant, blue eyes that have seen too much blazing in the bright desert sun with promise and Erik wants to reach out and touch Charles, just the brush of his fingers against soft, freckled skin, but he’s pulled back off of the cart, wrists still bound together as he’s led towards one of the tall, thick pillars to be put on display for the crowd.

Erik’s boots sink a few centimeters into the sand with every step, coarse particles giving way beneath him and making walking difficult. The entire stadium is packed full and the crowd is hungry, a living, breathing mass eager for bloodshed. Hank, Sean, and Alex are already here, each secured to a separate pillar, arms lifted up high over their heads with just enough slack to keep their feet still touching the ground. Hank and Sean watch him, faces tense, but Alex stares straight ahead at nothing.

Armando is, of course, gone. Erik’s remaining hand clenches into a fist. He’d died for them. He’d jumped in front of Erik and Charles without hesitation, without a second thought. Without Armando, it could’ve been Charles. It _should_ have been Erik, if only for dragging all of them into this in the first place.

He will not allow anyone else to die for him.

Erik gives Hank and Sean a nod, and then he’s maneuvered around so that his back presses against the pillar, arms lifted up and secured just like his companions. On his other side at the next pillar over, Charles receives the same treatment, biting his lower lip with his eyes closed to gather himself.

Their prisoners secured, the Nyrulians step away, leading the carts back towards the exits, and the crowd falls eerily silent as a voice rings out from somewhere high above.

“Today we have enemies of the Nyrulian Federation on display before us for grand execution.” The voice is in Standard, but has an unmistakable Nyrulian accent. “War-Prince Erik Lehnsherr of the Earth Empire Starfleet, our largest enemy, and his Deputy Prince Charles Xavier, who is responsible for the destruction of one of our ships and will now face justice for his treachery.”

The crowd erupts again and Erik feels the arena shake with it, the ground reverberating beneath his feet as a chant starts to rise, building in volume slowly until more and more voices join in and the cry of _KILL KILL KILL_ is no longer recognizable through the din of stamping feet and bloodthirsty screams of an angry mob just barely held in check.

The chant dissolves into a wordless roar, and high above that the same voice calls, “ _Destroy them_!”

The ground is shaking in earnest now, and at first Erik is confused, because not even a crowd could cause this much vibration, and then movement across the sand catches his eye and he realizes that a trap door is opening, black pit yawning wide, and something is slowly starting to emerge from below.

The stadium falls silent. Erik can hear the whisper of a breeze.

He recognizes immediately the creature that rises up on a platform from the underbelly of the arena—an Acklay, one of the most aggressive species in the galaxy native to the distant Vendaxa system. To him, the Acklay is reminiscent of an odd, mutated cross between a praying mantis and a crab, with six spindly, jointed legs ending in jagged, razor-sharp points and a thick, grey-green exoskeleton covering its legs and back like armor. It has a long neck ending in a head filled with teeth just below three beady eyes and a towering neck frill to complete its overall nightmarish appearance.

The Acklay seems genetically engineered, in a way, to inspire and encourage fear, possessing all the traits of a brutal, merciless predator and Erik has no doubt that this one would easily tear them all to shreds in a matter of moments—were it not for the fact that Wade Wilson sits perched atop its limp, dead body.

“WOOOOOOOOOHOOOOOOOOOOO!” the bounty hunter shouts into shocked, surprised silence of the arena, his voice echoing a hundred times over as he waves wildly to the stunned crowd. “I’M DEADPOOL!”

Erik looks over and catches Charles’ eye, and in that moment he’s fairly sure that both of them waver on the delicate precipice of either laughing or breaking down completely in the face of Wade’s particular brand of total, utter insanity.

The moment of shocked suspension shatters when the same voice from before shouts, “ **KILL THEM**!” and the crowd erupts in a deafening, murderous roar as slats all around the edges of the arena slide open and Taxxons pour out onto the sand, scuttling towards them from all sides.

“Wade!” Erik hears Charles shout over the din.

Wade jumps up to his feet with another whoop, reaching back over his shoulders and unsheathing his dual swords with a flourish, the blades glinting brightly as he crosses them over his head. “YEEEEHAAAW!”

Then he cocks back one arm and throws one of his blades like a javelin straight at Charles.

Erik’s heart stops and all he can do is open his mouth in horror as the blade streaks through the air, too quickly for him to do something, _anything_ to save Charles from being impaled, trapped as they are chained to the columns—

The sword imbeds itself in the stone of the pillar inches above Charles’ hands, snapping the chain neatly in two.

Charles stumbles forward, freed, as Wade lets out another wild cheer, pumping his fist up into the air. Erik tries to remember how to breathe again as Charles flicks Wade a brief two-fingered salute even with his wrists still shackled together, and then turns to grab the hilt of the sword and yank it back out of the pillar. Wade backflips off the top of the dead Acklay and takes off at a dead sprint straight towards the nearest quickly-approaching Taxxons.

Charles yanks the sword loose and heads for Erik as fast as he can, his leg slowing him down a little as he slips on the sand. The crowd around them is screaming for blood but Erik only has eyes for Charles, who grips the sword tightly in both hands, drawing it back like a baseball bat as he approaches and Erik ducks his head a little as Charles swings with all his might, once, twice, and then with a loud rattle Erik feels the chain holding his arms up snap.

Erik brings his arms down in front of himself slowly, stepping away from the pillar, shoulders jerking with the sensation of renewed blood flow. He presses a quick, chaste kiss to Charles’ mouth, muttering, “What the hell are those made out of anyway?”

Charles is panting slightly, more exerted than he should be, but hefts the blade up again with a shrug. “We probably don’t want to know. Come on.”

“I’ll follow you,” Erik answers with a nod.

The crowd roars loudly as they take off towards Hank chained to the next column over, and Erik spares a quick glance towards Wade. The bounty hunter has split one Taxxon open wide, the overgrown worm erupting like a wet paper bag and spilling blood and guts across the sand in a giant smear. The nearest Taxxons fall upon the innards ravenously, hissing and spitting as they devour their own still-dying companion, their eternal hunger driving them wild at the scent of blood. Wade laughs, slicing through two more, and now at least three quarters of the Taxxons are stampeding towards the slaughter.

“Charles,” Erik calls as they reach Hank, and Charles readily hands over the sword, both of them fumbling awkwardly a little with both of their wrists each still secured together, but Erik manages to get a good enough grip on the sword and prepares to strike—he can see Charles’ strength quickly sapping and Erik has better leverage anyway. It only takes him one swing to slice through Hank’s chain, freeing the CMO as well.

“What the hell kind of plan is this?” Hank demands, his face white and his eyes wide even as he falls easily into step with them as they take off towards Alex.

“One that’s working,” Erik says grimly, “so far.”

“Fuck,” Hank says, a little helplessly as he shakes his head, “I hope to god that you know what you’re doing.”

Their beeline towards Sean at the next column over puts them in the trajectory of the Taxxons approaching from the opposite side of the arena, and the nearest one dives at them with an angry hiss, circular mouth of razor-sharp teeth open wide. Erik swings Wade’s blade in a wide arc, cutting the monstrosity straight in half with a yell, hot innards splattering all over around them, and he uses his shoulder to nudge Charles back as more of the Taxxons catch up and go in for the kill, trampling each other in their mindless drive to eat.

“Watch out!” Hank cries, and Erik whirls around in time to see a Taxxon rearing back on its multiple hind legs, towering over them with all four of its bulbous red eyes trained on them hungrily before it throws its body forward, aiming to crush.

Charles dives sideways, knocking into Erik and sending them both sprawling as the Taxxon slams its body down on the sand where they had just been standing seconds before. Erik hits the ground with a grunt, rolling over onto his back, but it’s Charles who snatches up the sword and scrambles back up to his feet, running the Taxxon through just as it turns to lunge at them again. It dies with a scream, more guts spilling hot across the sand while Charles stumbles back, his face white, but otherwise unharmed.

Hank pulls Erik up to his feet again and they leave the rest of the Taxxons to fight each other for scraps of their fallen kin, too distracted for now to chase them. Erik’s entire arm is beginning to throb again, low and dull but resonating from the end of his wrist and slowly spreading upward as the numbing begins to wear off—he probably wasn’t meant to survive this long. He grits his teeth and keeps running. They’re not done yet.

They reach Alex, and Hank takes the sword this time to hack at the chain until the younger Summers is free. The arena is in complete chaos, with hungry Taxxons ripping each other to shreds and eating one another alive, while the crowd overhead cheers for the slaughter, mindless mob bloodlust nearly permeating the air. A few yards away, Wade reaches Sean’s pillar and frees him, the two of them quickly jogging over to rejoin the rest of them and they all stand together again once more.

“Dude!” Wade shouts, grinning wildly as he bounds over. “This is better than the slime monster with the tentacles on that ship we blew up!”

“Loads,” Charles answers faintly. He lifts his hands, still shackled together. “Anything to be done about these?”

“Whoa, that is one bold fashion statement,” Wade remarks, “but I don’t think those are your color.” He shakes his head, but pulls out a handheld blaster off a thigh holster. “Maybe next time try salmon.”

Before Erik can voice his trepidation that has nothing to do with color and everything to do with Wade Wilson holding a blaster up to Charles’ wrists, Wade fires once and a moment later the shackles are dropping uselessly to the ground, burnt neatly in half. Wade moves on to Erik next, and Erik can’t help the automatic flinch he gives when the blaster is leveled at his own ruined arm.

“Hm,” Wade observes solemnly, “definitely maroon.” Then he fires before Erik can jerk away and in an instant Erik’s arms are free as well and Wade is moving past them towards Hank.

The CMO gives Erik a flat, hard look. “Don’t get sand on that wrist. I don’t know what filth is in it and I don’t want an infection.”

Unbelievable. They’re in the middle of fucking chaos and the guy worries about _long-term infection_.

Charles leans heavily against Erik, fortunately on the side where Erik can wrap his good arm around his shoulders to hold on, pressing their sides close together. He can feel Charles trembling, and Erik knows it stems from combination of fear, adrenaline, exhaustion, and pain because his own body is doing exactly the same. Charles’ eyes, however, are still sharp. “Think we can pull off another dashing escape again, Wade?”

“Don’t worry, dude, Marvin’s got it covered,” Wade assures him, coming back around in front of them again having freed the others and sliding his blaster back into its holster, “he just needs a few more seconds to warm up, man.” He moves in close, placing both his hands on Charles’ shoulders and leaning in so that their faces are centimeters apart. “Bro.”

“I’m sorry, Wade,” Charles says, “it was never my intention to betray you until Creed gave me no choice.”

“I understand.” Wade gives a small shrug though he doesn’t break eye contact, intent. “But bro. There’s _always_ a choice. There’s always another option.”

Something flickers across Charles’ face, there and gone, so briefly that for a moment Erik’s not sure his expression even changed in the first place, but then he speaks, and his tone is unmistakable. “Yes,” he answers Wade, so softly that Erik’s certain that none of the others hear, “there is.”

“We’ve got company,” Hank warns them sharply from behind.

Erik looks up in time to see the first wave of Nyrulian guards vaulting over the short rail at the top of the arena walls, jumping down from the first level of seats and onto the red sand. They begin to advance towards them, blasting any of the remaining Taxxons into piles of steaming red goop, fanning out into one long firing squad line as they draw closer and closer.

“So,” Hank continues dryly, “is there a plan now for this, too?”

“I thought you’d never ask!” Wade beams, clapping his shoulder companionably. He deftly lifts his second sword out of Hank’s hand with a wink and then whirls around on the spot, raising both his blades together in an _X_ over his head, edges coming together with a sharp _clang_. “Yo Marvin my main man! Giddy up, partner!”

“Here I am, brain the size of a planet,” comes a strange, disembodied voice morosely through the speaker system of the arena, booming around them loudly, “and they ask me to dig a hole in a sandbox. Call that job satisfaction? Because I don’t.”

The sand beneath the Nyrulians begins to shift and the entire floor of the arena shakes, and for a wild, disoriented second Erik thinks that they’ve unleashed some new creature straight from hell to destroy them but then with a huge eruption of sand that sends all the Nyrulians on the floor of the arena flying, Bright Morning Sun Rising Over the Tall Craggy Mountains While the Silvery Mist Curls Gently Through the Trees on a Light Breeze that Wafts the Smell of the Cooling Pie Sitting on the Windowsill Throughout the Entire Log Cabin bursts out of the sand and rockets up into midair, hovering above them in the center of the arena.

_Talk about making an entrance_ , Erik thinks, admittedly somewhat hysterically.

The crowd roars, complete and utter pandemonium finally breaking loose as everyone in the stands panics, assuming that the abrupt arrival of a ship spells certain attack in the form of plasma beams raining down on them. All of them break and run, trampling each other on their way to any form of exit from the stands in chaos.

Wade throws back his head and laughs, swords still crossed high above his head. “I’M DEADPOOOOOOOOOOOOL!”

“Get us out of here before they start shooting!” Sean shrieks.

“ _ENERGIZE_!”

Erik closes his eyes and holds onto Charles tightly as they all begin to glow, the usual light and airy sensation overtaking him as he’s dissolved into particles and transmitted up through the air and onto Wade’s ship. The screams of the crowd cut abruptly, leaving him in a ringing silence that continues even when he feels himself rematerialize, still clutching onto Charles.

“Someone’s poisoned the waterhole!” Wade breaks the silence, jumping down off the transporter pad and sprinting for the door. It slides open with a breathy sigh and Wade darts out, calling over his shoulder, “Stay right there on the pad, dudes!”

“I can’t believe it,” Sean says blankly as the ship rocks, “we fucking _did_ it.”

“We’re not in the clear yet,” Hank replies grimly. On his other side Alex, still silent, sinks down into a crouch wearily.

“What’s next?” Charles asks faintly.

“Wade gets us out of here,” Erik replies, trying his best to get his thoughts in order. They feel scattered, thrown into disarray and hard to grasp on to for long through the throbbing pain of his arm. “Once we get out of the atmosphere and past the planet’s anti-transporter shield, we beam back onto the Heartsteel.”

“She’s hidden out in the planet’s debris ring,” Sean chips in helpfully when Erik has to stop to take a steadying breath, “and then we hightail it the fuck out of here.”

“Howdy y’all, this is your captain speaking,” Wade says over the intercom, “we may be experiencing some turbulence very shortly, followed by a fiery and glorious death, that’s a definite possibility, but don’t you worry your little heads because—THERE’S A SNAKE IN MY BOOT!”

The ship lurches hard to the left, so sharply that Erik loses his balance and pitches to the side, all of them sent sprawling across the pad. Erik hits the floor hard enough to drive all the air out of his lungs in a _whoosh_ but beside him Charles makes an involuntary, high sound of pain, and Erik rolls over immediately to face him.

“I’m fine,” Charles gasps out on an aborted sob, struggling to control his expression, “just banged my leg wrong.” His face is almost entirely bloodless, even his lips pale, his eyes wide and glassy and Erik can see him visibly starting to crumble, the last shreds of control he has over himself to keep himself from going to pieces over pain and the horrors that he has undergone in the past few hours beginning to disintegrate and Erik’s heart breaks a little that he cannot provide Charles with immediate, guaranteed safety and the time and place for him to begin to process and heal.

They _did_ do it, he thinks as he watches Charles fight for composure, they got Charles out. But they’ve also failed; reaching Charles both just in time yet also far too late.

“Hey,” Charles whispers shakily, reaching over to touch Erik’s cheek, both of them still lying on their sides on the floor of the transporter pad and oblivious to the rest of their companions carefully picking themselves up as the ship rocks again, “stay with me, Erik.”

“I’m here,” Erik replies at once, snapping out of thought, “I’m here.”

Charles swallows once, eyes clearing at last. He pushes himself up to his knees, grabbing onto Erik to help pull him up as well. “Yes,” he says as they clamber clumsily to their feet together, and Erik lets out a breath in relief because for now, at least, Charles is steady again.

“What’s our status, Wade?” Erik asks, a little louder.

“Nearly out of the atmosphere,” Wade reports cheerfully, “we’ve got a couple of Bug Fighters on our tail but no worries, Your Royal Majesties, they can’t keep up with Marvin, right partner?”

“I think you ought to know I’m feeling very depressed,” the ship’s computer answers morosely.

“Er, don’t worry about him,” Charles says faintly when Erik raises an eyebrow.

“And we’re clear! Woooooo!” Wade gives a loud whoop that deafens them all with a rush of feedback static for a moment. “Energizing on my mark!”

“What about you, Wade?” Charles asks.

“Dude, someone’s gotta swat these Bugs,” Wade replies, “don’t worry about me, bro! I’M DEADPOOL!”

“Even if I forgot everything else I know, I don’t think I would forget that,” Charles assures him seriously, and despite everything Erik finds it in himself to huff out a weary breath that could possibly count as a laugh.

“Alright man,” Wade says a few moments later, “it’s go time.”

“Well done, Wilson,” Erik says, hoping that he sounds as sincere as he feels, because if it weren’t for Wade pulling off his part so effortlessly—which might be worrisome on any other day—they wouldn’t have gotten off the planet alive.

“Shit,” Wade says with a slightly unhinged laugh, “satisfaction guaranteed, _hombre_. Energize!”

Erik feels himself beginning to dissolve again right as Charles opens his mouth to speak, but the words are lost as Wade’s ship fades out of sight in favor of disorientating bright light.

 

X

 

“Unsurprisingly, Stark,” Fury drawls as soon as they burst into his office, “I have better things to do than listen to your craziness. Rogers, get him out of my sight.”

“With respect sir, I’m with Tony on this.”

“Well, I do suppose this is my cue to depart,” Emma Frost says, rising from one of the chairs in front of Fury’s desk neatly. It causes Steve to blink—he’d thought she’d already left when Thor did. “I’m so glad we had this chat, Paladin.”

“Indeed,” Fury says flatly.

“Gentlemen,” Frost says as she turns, giving them a nod, and then brushes past them out of Fury’s office, disappearing just as abruptly as she’d initially arrived.

“Where’d Goldilocks go?” Tony blurts as the doors hiss shut behind her.

Fury looks so put upon that Steve almost—almost—feels sorry for him.

“Mr. Odinson has left to attend to certain matters. Rogers,” he starts to order, and then appears to abandon the effort. “Fine. Convince me.”

Steve feels a hot wash of adrenaline. If they’re given the chance, he and Tony can talk anyone around anything.

“Sir, you brought me here to strategize,” he says calmly. “So let me strategize. Trust me when I say—this is not where this ship will be needed.”

Fury stabs his finger into the dead-black surface of his work table, face savage. “You’re telling me this ship, this massive battle station, one of the greatest battle stations in the fleet, will be needed not on the battlefield—not on the site of war and chaos—but _somewhere else_?”

“With all due respect, sir,” Steve says in his best reasonable-yet-respectful voice, “if all goes well, the Nyrulians will hit Gandorian forces before they get anywhere near ours.”

“The Nyrulians are after Charles,” Tony hastens to add. “It’s _personal_. Even if they _are_ preparing to launch a new war and are doing it so grossly that they decided to send out their whole fucking fleet, the leaders of the fleet will not be in the vessels sent out to deep space to fight and possibly be destroyed—they’ll be sitting pretty behind the battlements, waiting for the war effort to start, and watching Charles be slaughtered.”

Fury stares blankly at Tony, so Steve says, “The logic is sound, Paladin Fury. If we want to nip this in the bud, end the war before it gets a chance to gain traction—this is where we’re going to need to be.”

“And where in the ever-loving fuck is ‘this,’ Paladin Rogers? What quadrant? _Where_?”

“We don’t know that yet,” answers Steve firmly. “But we will, soon. Tony can find it.”

It’s a risk—a big risk, a gamble. And at least half of Steve’s resolve and drive are fueled not by logic, not by duty, but by the asphyxiating, soul-crushing sense that if he fails to do this—if he does not fight for this, does not speak up, does not do his level absolute best to convince Fury that this is the right, the only, course of action—he will _never_ forgive himself.

“Find what, Rogers?”

“The Heartsteel,” grits out Tony.

Fury’s eyes snap to Steve. He holds himself perfectly still, spine ramrod straight, shoulders relaxed, chin up. He wants to show his resolve and his belief in this. He doesn’t want Fury to see him shaking inside with the terror that he’ll be denied and fail his friends and lose them. He doesn’t want to imagine what it will be like to have to go out into space in a humanitarian ship to retrieve the destroyed bodies of the shipmates he failed to protect.

“Convince me,” repeats Fury coldly.

Steve draws in a long, even, steadying breath.

“It’s that time again, sir,” he says quietly. “Where you’ll have to put trust before reason.”

“Rogers,” sighs Fury, pressing the heel of his hand to his one good eye. “When blond little shits like you give me this much pain, I long for the days when we could just gang up on you and beat you into a blue-eyed pulp in some back alley with a bunch of healthy black brothers, you know that?”

“Good times,” agrees Steve mildly.

“Motherfucking pretty boy with a genius IQ,” mutters Fury. “What did I do to deserve you two fools?”

“A lot of good things,” answers Tony, and then unfortunately follows it with: “In some previous life.”

Trust Tony never to know to quit when he’s ahead.

 

X

 

Logan and Scott don’t even hesitate when Raven’s sensors announce that Wade’s ship is incoming, pushing back from their stations as one and jogging for the elevator, ducking in through the doors that close with a hiss before anyone else can get a word in edgewise. Raven starts the elevator’s descent immediately, and they stand side-by-side in tense silence, shoulders close enough to brush, and after a moment Logan reaches over slowly to squeeze Scott’s hand once, short but meaningful, and by the time the elevator comes to a smooth halt and the doors hiss open again they’re not touching at all.

It’s a quick jog down the hall to the transporter room, and they make it just in time to watch as Sean, Alex, Hank, and Erik blur into view—and finally, after a heart-stopping moment’s delay, Charles appears beside Erik as well, and Logan lets out a breath he hadn’t even known he’d been holding.

Scott makes a beeline for his brother, but Logan can only stare at his commanders. Charles is _alive_ —Logan can hardly believe his goddamn eyes—but haggard, and although as far as he can tell Charles is physically whole, which is a whole hell of a lot better than he ever fucking expected, Logan’s seen enough shit in his time to know that doesn’t necessarily mean anything at all.

Erik’s left hand is _gone_.

“Charles!” Raven shimmers into view in front of the transporter pad, Keflar blue even while out of her Mystique Mode. “War-Prince. Welcome back.”

“Raven,” Charles says, the ghost of a smile slipping briefly across his face, “I’m glad to see you, darling.” His gaze flicks to Logan. “Logan—”

“Don’t,” Logan interrupts him shortly, “we ain’t got the time, bub.” Even so, he pauses. “Glad you’re alive,” he says, a little less brusquely, and Charles dips his head once in understanding. “Erik—”

“To the bridge,” Erik orders, as if he doesn’t have a knuckle-white grip on Charles’ arm with the only goddamn hand he has left.

“All of you need to report to the med bay immediately,” Hank says flatly even as everyone begins to move, and Logan’s got to hand it to him, the man has some serious balls.

“Alex and Sean, go,” Erik says shortly, leading the way out into the hall back towards the elevator, “and don’t argue with me, Hank, we need to move.”

“Oh, certainly, you’ve only had your hand ripped off,” Hank retorts, “but goddamn it, Charles, you’ve had _enough_.”

“Hank, this ship full of people just came all this way to get me,” Charles answers steadily as he steps into the elevator beside Erik, turning around to face them, and odd sort of finality in his voice, “and I’m going to do everything that I can to make sure that they all make it back out.”

“Bridge to transporter, we’ve got five Nyrulian Destroyers incoming!”

 

X

 

“Wade,” Charles says quickly as soon as the telltale glow of the transporter begins to dissolve his companions, “after this, it’s time to go.”

“Shit,” Wade repeats, serious this time, “catch you on the flipside, partner.”

 

X

 

Aboard the Heartsteel, with Charles at his side and Logan and Scott behind him, Erik’s mind rearranges itself like a laser to the one remaining priority: getting the ship and its crew out of harm’s way at once. Raven sends the lift up thirteen decks at unsafe speeds and arrives from the engineering deck to the bridge in less than a minute.

Erik stalks out of the lift, too intent on the issue at hand to spare thought even to Charles’ mobility; Logan and Scott will help him if he requires it. Charles won’t want the extra attention from him now, not in front of the bridge crew.

“Captain on the bridge!”

“Battle stations. Report.”

He watches the battle screens unfold hovering mid-air as the main screen shifts to vital-only information scheme, shutting down unnecessary calculations to devote all available power to battle. Unnecessary personnel rushed quickly and orderly out of the bridge, their stations folding back into the walls where they won’t be in the way.

Erik takes his chair, fingers dancing briefly over the panel to bring up hoverscreens and full system alerts. Everything is currently green and safe, but that is unlikely to last.

“Shields at one hundred percent and holding stable,” says Scott as Logan’s screens blur with star charts and calculations.

Erik makes a swift calculation and orders, “Divert all non-battle power to Essential. Sound red alert. Weapons at the ready. Get us out of here.”

“On it,” mumbles Logan distractedly.

The long line of lights at the edge of wall and ceiling along the curving viewscreen and doorframes changes from amber to red as the ship goes into full battle alert. All non-battle personnel will be evacuating to highly shielded Essential areas: rec rooms, mess halls, Medical.

The heart of the Heartsteel, far from fire, ensconced firmly at the center of a large mass of protective spaceship. Everything else in the ship will be thrown dark and sealed to prevent further damage of wounded areas. Destroyed bays will be locked and ejected once Raven judges them unsalvageable.

Erik watches detachedly as the outer opaque shielding falls over the viewscreen.

“I have a course,” says Scott, just as the Nyrulian ship opens fire. The Heartsteel shivers. Erik exchanges a glance with Charles, who is sitting at his station, fingers flying over the touchscreens.

“Their weapons are powerful,” Charles says grimly.

Scott looks at Logan. “ _Speed, mark, stop_ exercise. Follow the course I plotted for each leg.”

Logan nods, shifting slightly on his chair as the seatbelts unfold over his chest and lap. Erik stifles the urge to say ‘walk me through your plan,’ because he trusts Logan and Scott to work together as well as he does with Charles; he trusts their judgment, their skill, and their creativity. If anyone can get them away from the Nyrulians with minimal damage and dodge a fight, it has to be them.

_Speed, mark, stop_ exercise, he thinks. He doesn’t think he’s been in one since the early pilot classes at the Academy. The professor would give the pilot a speed, then tell him when to jump to it and when to drop it, all in the space of fractions of second. It tested reactions, reflexes, dexterity and fluidity, knowledge, and skill. Logan has the highest recorded mark in the last five decades.

“Five,” says Scott quietly, “mark.”

The ship jumps into hyperspeed, stars blurring into long lines. Erik feels exhilaration bloom in his chest like warmth, like electricity, traveling through his nerves and searing him. He glances down at where his arm comes to an abrupt end at the wrist, at the bandage wrapped tightly there stained with sand and sweat and dirt.

“Stop,” says Scott, and the ship drops the speed, immediately compensating with thrusters to achieve full stillness. Erik glances up, watching the charts rearrange for the current quadrant. The red proximity alert remains blinking prominently in the main screen, muted to avoid distractions and added stress.

There’s a pause of a few seconds before Scott gives the next speed and mark.

Erik doesn’t lose track of time—pain, shock, stress and adrenaline sharpen his senses, so that he is aware of every minute shift in direction, every increase and decrease in speed as they jump through space at alternatively great wide jumps and small little hops and varying speeds, dizzying and unpredictable.

“What are you doing?” he asks, vaguely numb.

“Hop along,” snaps Logan, already steering into a new direction.

They’re hoping the abrupt changes of speed, direction, and time in hyperspeed will disorient their pursuers, making it impossible to predict their present location. If they can manage to leave them behind long enough that by the time they arrive at a set of coordinates seconds have gone past and the ion trail has dissipated, they can lose them.

Erik continues watching the screens, watches them dissolve quickly from one chart to the next, throwing up coordinates and statistics. His eyes stay on the muted alerts popping up in different screens, increasingly dire. He keeps looking at the proximity alerts, keeps feeling his stomach lurch and drop when it turns red once they settle into a location—the pursuit continues, a chase through space with no boundaries or direction.

Charles appears at Erik’s side, voice low and calm.

“We’re not gaining ground and we can’t keep this up for long without risking catastrophic engine failure. I don’t think we can outrun their sensors.”

Erik looks at him, at his dark eyes and the severe line of his worried brows, at the tense bow of his lovely, dear mouth, looking bruised and swollen in his pale, pale face. Charles’ face isn’t saying _give up_ : it’s saying _change course_. 

“Prince Xavier,” calls out one of the sensor officers, unfolding a new hoverscreen.

Charles limps painfully to her station, frowning.

“Erik, there’s a vector following our course hops,” he says, incredulous. “Someone beside the Nyrulians is honing in on us.”

“How is that even fucking possible?” growls Logan, eyes still fixed to his piloting screen.

Charles takes over the station, fingers moving dexterously over the screen.

“Good god,” he breathes, eyes widening. “It’s the Ionstar. The Ionstar is converging with us on a collision path.”

“Fucking—” says Logan, and then abandons the attempt to focus more fully on the navigation.

Erik is momentarily speechless. “How could the Ionstar possibly be converging with us? We’re hopping. I don’t even know where the hell we’re going, _Logan_ doesn’t know where we’re going.”

Charles straightens in the chair, mind visibly racing as his eyes dart across the screen, following the Ionstar’s progress.

“Oh,” he breathes, eyes widening even further. “ _Oh_.”

Erik frowns at him. Scott calls a halt and lets the ship sit still for a moment as he reads the reports from all decks and the statistics on engine function and nacelle heat signatures that Raven feeds to his screen. The speed with which these travel across his screen is nauseating.

Erik looks away and his eyes land back on what used to be his left hand.

His whole body feels unbalanced, like his equilibrium has suffered a major shift. His core hasn’t changed, and although, yes, his arm is certainly several inches shorter, it can’t make as much a difference in his balance as he fancies it does.

Presuming he lives through this madness to see the dawn of a new day alongside Charles, he will have to dedicate long tireless hours to regaining his battle prowess with this new impairment. Even a new hand, supposing he can find one that fits his needs, will present a challenge; no manufactured biomechanical hand will weigh the same or move in the same fashion as his actual hand did. He will have to gain a dexterity that years into the future will yet not compare to the one he used to have.

Charles is at his side, Erik realizes abruptly. He looks up and finds Charles’ eyes glittering, a dark and sharp blue like coalesced shards of ice.

Erik thinks of the Heartsteel, the hopping, the danger of engine failure that could result in a fatal error in life support systems. And the Ionstar.

“Can they catch us?” he asks quietly.

Charles’ mouth twists. “No matter how good Tony and the pilot following his orders are, they’ll always be one step behind. Mere seconds—but.”

But the Heartsteel has mere minutes to survive, once they settle on a location. Every time they stop, the proximity alert lets them know that the Nyrulians are at their heels. They haven’t escaped, and if they haven’t thus far—

To concede, Erik thinks, is not always to be defeated.

He looks at Charles, fierce and desperate all at once. He hopes Charles will understand— _knows_ Charles will understand, as he always does. That thrum of awareness, of knowledge, the flows between them like a river downhill. Eriks is going to have to do this—he’s going to have to sacrifice everything that they worked together so hard and so long to achieve, he’s going to have to let this dream of them—a home, a place to belong, a mission in life—die a swift and painful death.

To protect the crew. Their _family_.

Charles’ eyes shut tightly. He swallows, a brief but terrible spasm of anguish shadowing his face. But then he parts his lips and breathes in and pushes through, and when his eyes open, they are calm, and blue, and clear.

He nods.

Erik turns to Scott, busy plotting a new course, a more complex one perhaps.

“Find a location suitable for a ship-wide evacuation,” he orders softly.

Scott stiffens. “We can do this,” he says through gritted teeth.

“No,” says Erik flatly. “We can’t. Do as I said. Raven, alert Medical and Essential quarters to be ready for imminent evacuation.”

“Yes, sir.”

A new screen pops up next to Erik as Charles slowly, calmly goes to sit at his station. The new screen shows the ship-wide evacuation alert and its progress, counting each single crew member and tracking their location to note it down on the log that would then be ejected in the Black Box. All records of all crewmembers would be saved into the Box, alongside all information contained in the main matrix of Raven’s—

His eyes snap up, a sudden idea striking hot like lightning through his veins.

“Scott,” he says curtly, mind racing miles ahead but also aware that Scott is distinctly _not doing_ what Erik ordered him to do. Just because Erik is about to commit suicide doesn’t mean he’s going to go lax on discipline.

“I’m on it,” snaps Scott, obviously frayed.

Erik hesitates. He’s not good at these things. Charles is good at these things—at understanding, at being compassionate.

After a moment he rises from the command chair and goes to stand next to Scott. Somewhat tentative, unsure of his welcome, uneasy with his own impulse, he lays his right hand on Scott’s shoulder.

The navigator flinches, eyes fixed on his console. He swallows dry, and Erik can feel the tension on his shoulder, the corded muscle gone stiff and hard under his hand. Erik squeezes with his hand and leans down, forcing Scott to turn and _look_ at him.

He hopes his expression shows Scott that Erik isn’t giving up, that he isn’t surrendering to inevitable circumstances. He doesn’t have with Scott the rapport he has with Charles, the ability for unspoken communication by eye contact, but he hopes Scott knows better than to believe him the sort that folds. No. _Never_.

Something odd and sharp pierces Scott’s dark eyes. He scowls but then, surprisingly, nods.

“I can get us to a reasonable location to eject the pods, at least.”

Erik straightens, staring at the viewscreen.

“Do that,” he says thoughtfully. “Find one and get us there.”

He whirls around and heads for his private office. He gestures for Charles to follow him, a habitual and comfortable motion with his—

He flinches, forcing the stump of his left hand down to his side, and instead searches out Charles’ eyes and motions with his head for the office. When the door closes behind Charles, Erik turns to him, accessing the locked, classified War-Prince screen on his desk.

“We,” he says softly, “are going to save these people. Whatever the cost.”

Charles lowers himself slowly to the chair across his desk, clearly pained by his many injuries.

“Erik,” he says tiredly. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

 

X

 

“Sir,” Vicereine Maria Hill looks up from her station to address him, “reports coming in. A Nyrulian force of upwards of fifty ships has attacked a Gandorian battle star. The Gandorians have already decimated half of them, and the other half are on the run in full retreat.”

“Monitor the situation,” Fury answers, pointedly ignoring Tony Stark’s gleeful look on the viewscreen, “ensure that the Gandorians remain more annoyed with the Nyrulians than the Empire.”

“Yes sir.”

“Stark, why haven’t you found the Heartsteel yet,” Fury drawls, if only to quash the smug look on the man’s face.

“I’m trying,” Stark mutters, turning away from the camera. He’s down in engineering, and not only has he given the Ionstar’s engines a boost—obnoxiously, Fury might add—he’s also currently trying to triangulate where exactly the Heartsteel is going to pop up next. “I think they’re running a _speed, mark, stop_ , which,” and here he gives a low whistle, “I’m impressed, but it also probably means that they’re being chased, so get ready for some hot alien action—”

“Just find the damn ship,” Fury orders flatly, and at least Rogers has the common sense to keep his face perfectly straight.

Stark looks up and bats his lashes. “I thought you’d never ask.”

 

X

 

It’s so goddamn ironic where they end up dropping out of hyperspace for the last time that it makes Logan want to punch something. Instead he sighs, leaning back in his chair to flex his hands for half a moment. The edge of his screen scrolls continuously with angry red warnings, some from Azazel down in engineering and some directly from Raven herself, demonstrating just how close they fucking are to critical meltdown.

“Did you do this on purpose?” he asks Scott, who still hunches over his own panel.

“He wants a good spot for evac,” Scott snaps without looking up, “so I got us back into Earth Empire territory and this was the closest fucking spot at the vector we were traveling at that wasn’t just empty space.”

Logan grunts in acknowledgement, staring out the main viewscreen at the admittedly beautiful view the Heartsteel has of First Earth.

Planet Earth is blue, with swirls of white clouds and tiny patches of green here and there on the otherwise barren continents, silent and empty as she slowly spins on her axis. It’s hard to imagine even now that the planet is still too radioactive to ever be considered habitable for another hundred thousand or more years, a direct result of the mass genocide carried out by the Nyrulians only two decades ago.

He wonders where they’d all be right now if that had never happened at all, or if one small, scared boy hadn’t been smuggled aboard the last ship off the planet by his loving parents. He wonders whether, somehow, they would’ve all come together by chance anyway. Erik and Charles definitely would. There’s no force in the known universe that could’ve kept them from tripping into each other’s lives.

“Captain on the bridge!”

Erik and Charles step back onto the bridge, moving together down past Erik’s chair to stand side-by-side in front of the viewscreen, stopping for a moment to stare at First Earth, their profiles sharp and crisp against such a bright, luminous backdrop. Logan wonders what Erik thinks, as he stands in front of his home planet for the first time since he barely escaped with his life so many years ago.

He can’t see Erik’s face, as the War-Prince faces the viewscreen with his back to Logan and Scott, but as Logan watches, Charles’ hand slowly lifts to rest at the small of Erik’s back, the simple touch offering comfort and solidarity, the gesture so oddly intimate that Logan looks away.

“Nyrulian Destroyers incoming, sir,” Scott reports tersely, “we have 30 seconds. Our last jump caused the Ionstar to lose track of us but it won’t take Stark long to pick up the trail.”

“All shields forward,” Erik orders, “Logan, switch to smaller thrusters for combat maneuvering. Get us around to face them. And Charles—”

“Let me stay here for a minute,” Charles answers, and Erik gives a tight nod.

“We’re not going to be able to move much, sir,” Logan reports grimly even as he switches out his controls, giving the thrusts a few sharp bursts to move them closer into orbit with First Earth. The planet slowly slides out of view as he turns the Heartsteel around. “Our engines are almost shot.”

“Understood. Scott, send out the signal. Get people moving to their designated escape pods.”

“On it.”

“Here they come,” Charles murmurs, and then once again Logan finds himself facing down death.

The five Nyrulian Destroyers drop out of warp simultaneously, stretched out in a straight line in front of the Heartsteel. Five is nothing compared to the one hundred ships they’d seen running practice drills on their way to Geonosis, but those ships had come and gone. These ships, the same glittering black with long, narrow bodies and sharp wing-like structures sweeping out along the sides, with bulbous bridgeheads and six huge engine turbines at the back, aren’t going to leave.

Or they will, once every single last person in the Heartsteel’s crew is dead.

“Steady,” Erik says into the tense silence on the bridge as they all stare at the menacing black ships that slowly advance forward, “we have a slight advantage in the fact that they need this ship whole.”

“Christ,” Scott says, for lack of anything else.

“Sir, we’re being hailed,” the replacement CO standing in for Cassidy calls from her station.

“On screen,” Erik answers grimly.

There’s a moment’s pause and then the viewscreen flickers as the CO opens the transmission. Cain Marko’s sallow face fills the screen and distantly Logan is surprised at how quickly pure hate can burn through his body without further prompting, every last ounce of it directed towards the goddamn _coward_ obstructing their view of the stars.

“Hello Cain,” Charles says, because Erik’s back has become one lone, rigid line—no doubt whatever hatred Logan might feel towards Cain fucking Marko, Erik feels tenfold.

Charles’ hand on Erik’s back has formed into a fist.

“Charles,” Cain snarls, some of his spittle splashing onto his screen, “there’s nowhere left for you to run. My friends here are ready to take your ship and I’ve told them that they can kill your crew however they want—”

“Your friends,” Charles interrupts him, with a soft, eerie laugh that Logan has never heard the Deputy give before, “you think they’re your friends? I hope for your sake that they consider you one after you fail to capture this ship.”

“ _I have you right where I want you_!” Cain roars, slamming a fist against the screen. His eyes are wild with rage, past all point of reasoning, and Logan shakes his head in disgust.

“No, Cain,” Charles says coldly, and Raven’s sensors start to light up again, signaling another ship approaching, “you’re right where we want _you_.”

The TEF Ionstar drops out of warp behind the line of Destroyers, a great white shark gliding up on a school of fish. Beyond Cain in the background of the transmission they can hear a wild outbreak of hissing as the Nyrulians’ sensors lock onto the Ionstar. Immediately three of the Destroyers wheel around to face Fury’s behemoth, leaving the Heartsteel faced with the other two.

“It’s still not enough, Charles!” Cain shouts, his face a blotchy shade of red as he seethes on the other side of the screen, looking as if he’d love nothing more than to be able to reach through the transmission to wrap his hands around Charles’ throat. “There will be no more escaping,” he continues, his voice silky enough to make every hair on the back of Logan’s neck stand on end, “we will kill your crew and take you alive. We will torture you, and make him watch—” he smirks at Erik, but only for a second before his gaze returns to Charles, “—until he gives up the tech. We will tear you _limb from limb,_ and only after that will we allow you to die.”

The words hang in the air for a moment, electric-charged and heavy in the absolute silence.

“Cain,” Charles says at last, his voice tired but unwavering. Logan doesn’t know how he does it, how the Prince can speak so calmly to the man who has done him so much harm, who initiated this long string of fucked up events and lit the fuse to start an intergalactic war that is seconds away from erupting. He doesn’t know how Charles hasn’t lost his mind completely, staying more composed than even _Erik’s_ been these past few nightmarish days. “You will not touch this crew. You will not touch Erik, and you will _never_ touch me again.”

Cain’s face is twisting again, his mouth opening to bite off another scathing reply but Charles doesn’t give him a chance.

“You want this ship?” Charles says, all cold fury that Logan hadn’t thought the Prince capable of, but then again he’s not the first person to have been wrong about Prince Charles Xavier of the TEF Heartsteel. “Come and get her.”

“Plasma cannons on full,” Erik says icily, “fire at will.”

Two long beams of burning red light lance out from the Heartsteel and cut across one of the Destroyers. Cain’s transmission shakes and blurs before cutting complete, whatever he starts to shout cut off as the Heartsteel continues to fire on the Destroyer, silent explosions lighting up along the ship’s flank. The three Destroyers facing the Ionstar open fire at the same time, Fury’s shields absorbing the worst of the impacts but it’s still three against one.

The battle has begun.

“Maintain shields as long as possible,” Erik snaps as the Heartsteel blasts out another volley of plasma beams, helping Charles back up to his station before moving to stand in front of the Captain’s chair. “Logan, do as much as you can to avoid their counterattack, I know our mobility is limited. Everyone else, start the evacuation in full. That’s an order.”

Logan shoves his cigar in his mouth with a curse, fingers flying across his screen as the two Destroyers still facing the Heartsteel extend their glowing green cannons. Ignoring the screaming red text scrolling rapidly down his screen he taps into all the thrusters he can control, preparing to react.

“Are you fucking joking?!” Scott snarls as the remaining bridge crew members stand and file out of the bridge. “You’re going to fucking shoot escape pods out now, right in the middle of this shitstorm?! They’ll be sitting ducks!”

“Not yet,” Erik answers grimly, “but they need to be ready to deploy just in case.”

“In case of _what_?”

The Destroyers fire, and the entire ship rocks as Logan drags them to the hard right to avoid the worst of the green beams of light. It helps that the Nyrulians are being cautious, even with two of their ships against a limping one, because Erik was right—they don’t want to destroy the ship in case it destroys the Keflar tech they’re so desperate to have.

“I’ve got incoming photon torpedoes,” Logan grunts as Raven’s sensors light up, “those sunovabitches will tear right through the shields, sir—”

“I see them,” Charles calls, and a moment later several of the Heartsteel’s torpedoes race out on the Prince’s calculations to meet the incoming ones with deadly accuracy, blowing them up harmlessly in the empty space between the ships.

They’re holding their own, if just barely. It still feels like a game of cat and mouse.

Logan glances up for a moment. The bridge is empty now save for Erik, Charles, Scott, and himself. It’s odd, seeing the place so deserted in a moment of crisis. He doesn’t know what Erik’s fucking playing at, but far be it from him to discuss it now.

“They’re trying to surround us!” Scott shouts when the Destroyers cruise forward, shields on high to absorb each plasma ray the Heartsteel sends out.

“I can only back up so far, sir,” Logan says grimly.

“Turn us, get broadside again,” Erik orders, and Logan hastens to obey, firing the thrusters carefully to rotate the Heartsteel around as the two Nyrulian ships glide up on either side of her.

“Our power levels are critically low,” Scott reports, “our shields are starting to—”

The Nyrulian Destroyers fire, green plasma beams slicing through space on either side of the Heartsteel, and then something explodes.

 

X

 

“Erik,” Charles says quietly, and that’s enough for Erik to finally look up at him.

Erik swallows. “There has to be—”

“No,” Charles interrupts him gently, suddenly ancient with how tired he looks and sounds and Erik’s heart _aches_ , “you know there’s only one way for this to go. They will never stop, darling. They will _never stop_.”

Erik walks around the side of his desk to take Charles’ hand. The Prince looks up at him as Erik lifts his hand to his lips to press a soft kiss against his fingers. “I know.”

Charles breathes. In and out. Easy. Easy. “I have a plan.”

 

X

 

It’s too loud over the blaring alarms hear anything at first, but Charles can still read lips and as he looks over at his Commander, his best friend, the love of his life, Erik mouths very slowly, “ _No_.”

And Charles can only look back at him helplessly because he knows Erik knows better than that—because yes, yes, _oh god_ , yes.

“Fuck, goddamn it, our fucking shields are fried, we can’t fucking hold them,” Scott is shouting, and he’s trying to do something on his screen and if Charles’ mouth wasn’t so dry he might’ve summoned up the courage to tell the TO that it was pointless, there’s nothing to be done now, “they’re going to fucking rip us to pieces—”

“Two of our engines are down,” Logan announces over the din grimly, nearly biting through his cigar, “we’re fucking sunk, boys—”

“Evacuate the ship,” Erik says, utterly calm, his voice cutting across everything else even as he maintains eye contact with Charles, never blinking, “I want everyone off.  There’s still enough time yet to get everyone away.”

“And what the fuck are you going to do?” Scott demands, throwing rank and decorum out the window entirely as he whirls around in his seat to glare accusingly at the War-Prince.  That’s the thing, though, isn’t it—Scott already knows too, and even so he’s still addressing Erik as an equal, as a friend, rather than as his Commander.

Perhaps he’d rather remember Erik that way instead. Maybe he even thinks he can say or do something that will sway Erik, make him change his mind.

Charles doesn’t bother asking, or hoping.  He already knows too.

Erik holds Charles’ gaze still, even as the Heartsteel gives a violent shudder beneath them and the whole bridge shakes.  “You know as well as I do,” he says quietly, and yet somehow his voice is still crystal clear, “the captain always goes down with the ship.”

Charles closes his eyes as both Logan and Scott leap to their feet, snarling and cursing.

“ _No_ ,” Erik had mouthed, but Erik knows better, has always known better, just as Charles had determined in the War-Prince’s office only a few minutes ago. It is one thing, however, to talk about something happening, to speak of it in cold, clinical terms while completely detached from the situation, and another thing entirely to be in the moment and experience it first hand. There is nothing worse, Charles thinks wearily, than knowing how it ends.

“—fucking be picked off like flies if you eject the pods now, and fuck _you_ if you think we’re going to let you sit on this ship and martyr yourself like some kind of fucking asshole!” Scott is livid, angrier than Charles has ever seen him. “You can’t make us leave.”

“This isn’t up for debate,” Erik answers him, deadly calm, “I will hold this bridge and keep the Nyrulian’s attention focused on this ship and make sure every last one of the escape pods makes it out of range. It is my duty to the crew, as it is your duty to follow your orders, which I will give you now: get Charles off this ship.”

Logan and Scott both whip around to stare at Charles, but Charles only has eyes for Erik, looking at him wide-eyed and speechless from where he sits at his station.

“I refuse to let you fall into Nyrulian hands,” Erik says to him, staring directly into Charles’ eyes even while his one remaining fist clenches down at his side, “never again.” He turns his gaze back to Scott and Logan. “Please.”

“Erik,” Charles finds his voice as Logan and Scott make their way towards him, because he has to say something, anything, at this point, “Erik, please—”

“Sorry, bub,” Logan says, but his hands are gentle as he pulls Charles up out of his chair, keeping a firm grip under Charles’ arm to help hold him up as the Heartsteel rocks again, and more likely than not to keep Charles from breaking loose, “as much as I fucking hate to admit it, he’s right. We went all that way to get you the hell away from those bastards, and I’ll be damned if we let them get you back.”

“What about Raven?” Scott asks tersely, even as he moves to flank Charles’ other side.

“They can’t get her without Charles,” Erik answers, a note of finality entering his voice. He’s turned away from them, facing the viewscreen. His profile is sharp in the glowing light, every sharp angle of him thrown into harsh contrast as he stands his ground in the face of obliteration. “Go now.”

Logan shifts. “Erik—”

“There’s no time,” Erik snaps as the Heartsteel  lurches sharply, another distant explosion going off as the Destroyers launch a fresh attack, “go!”

Charles feels himself being half-walked, half-dragged towards the lift but he can’t tear his eyes away from Erik, turning his head to keep the War-Prince within his sight. His leg hurts, his body hurts, but the aching throb is nothing compared to the hole eating its way through his chest at what is about to happen—

“Erik, no,” Charles says, the words stumbling out of his mouth as he’s pulled into the elevator, “no, no, no—”

The elevator doors hiss shut and Charles lets out a strangled noise, looking down hard at the ground to hide his face from Logan and Scott who stand stiffly on either side of him as the lift begins to descend. The Helmsman and Technical Officer are too loyal, he thinks wildly, a dull sort of pounding in his ears drowning out whatever angry hiss of words Scott is saying to Logan over his head.

Right as they come to a halt and the doors slide open again, the Heartsteel gives such a violent lurch that Charles loses his balance completely, his bad leg buckling beneath him. He grabs onto Logan’s arm and yanks, pulling him down with him. They topple forward into the empty, abandoned corridor, landing in a tangled heap. Charles’ vision blackens for a second when his leg hits the ground, letting out a jagged sob at the agony that shoots through his entire body. For a moment he can’t even move, paralyzed by pain, his vision blurring in and out of focus like a transmission with too much interference.

“Shit,” Scott curses somewhere above him, “fucking Nyrulians—”

Charles forces himself to focus, hands scrambling for Logan beneath him while peering intently through the gloom—the corridor has only a few, flickering emergency lights left on—parsing him out in the semi-darkness and then one of Scott’s hands closes around his bicep.

“Let me help you up, Charles—”

“No,” Charles snaps, yanking his arm out of Scott’s grip that has gone loose in shock at the vehemence of Charles’ tone, “don’t touch me. _Don’t touch me_. I’m so _bloody_ tired of being touched, just—don’t.”

Logan manages to sit up, peering at him through the dark, and Charles doesn’t have enough energy to do anything but pant wearily, pain and exhaustion weighing him down like a hundred neutron stars.

“Go secure a pod,” Logan says to Scott, and the TO moves off down the hall to comply, leaving Charles and Logan still sitting on the ground as the ship shakes around them. For a few moments they’re both silent, Charles’ breathing slowly evening out from laborious to only slightly uneven. “Alright, Charles?”

“No.” The fire in his voice is gone now, the single syllable monotone.

“Yeah,” Logan says, rubbing his eyes with one hand, “I know.”

“Pod’s secure,” Scott calls from down the hall.

“You gonna walk, or are you gonna make me drag you?” Logan asks conversationally. He could be talking about the weather.

“I’ll walk,” Charles answers distantly. Slowly, carefully, he gathers his better leg beneath him, using the wall as a brace as he pushes himself back up to his feet. He feels the wall shudder beneath his hand with the next explosion that rocks the ship, and silently, in a quiet corner of his heart he mourns for the Heartsteel, his beautiful ship, the ambassador between him and the stars, his ticket into the great galaxy beyond at Erik’s side.

Logan waits for him to rise on his own, and then leads the way down the corridor, his pace steady enough to allow for Charles’ leg. Charles grits his teeth as he limps, holding onto the wall whenever the Heartsteel heaves, and it seems like forever until they draw level with the door to the waiting escape pod. It’s one of the pods reserved for officers, and besides Scott, it’s empty. It’s probably the replacement pod for the one Cain shoved him in to deliver him to the Nyrulians what feels like a lifetime ago.

It’s horribly ironic.

“Alright, listen,” Logan says as he steps inside, and that’s when Charles strikes.

Gathering up all the strength he can muster, he dives towards Logan, curving one shoulder forward so that he rams perfectly into Logan’s unsuspecting back, slamming into the Helmsman from behind. Logan flies forward with a yell but Charles latches onto the doorway to keep himself from following suit this time, pushing himself back from the pod.

He rips open the wall panel beside the door and punches in his authorization code, and then watches as the escape pod’s door hisses shut, sealing Scott and Logan inside.

 

X

 

“Are you sure you can get them both into the—”

“Yes. I’m sure.”

Erik pauses for a moment, watching him. “Very well. I’ll leave it to you.”

Charles nods once. “Now make the call.”

 

X

 

Logan hits the deck of the escape pod and is on his feet within a second but it’s still not fast enough. As soon as he whirls around with a wordless shout, the door has already slid shut, pressurized vacuum locks hissing ominously. His momentum carries him forward and he slams into the door anyway, pounding on it even though he knows it’s futile.

Scott is right behind him, swearing, adding his fists to Logan’s, but it’s no use. The door is sealed, and they’re on the wrong side of it.

Through the tiny, round porthole window, they can see Charles leaning back against the opposite wall, chest heaving as he pants. His face is white and his eyes are closed, pain cutting deep lines into his face as he struggles for control, visibly holding back a scream. Throwing himself into Logan’s back must have cost him dearly.

Logan doesn’t care.

“Goddamn it, Charles, don’t do this!” Logan pounds his fist against the door. “Open the fucking door!”

“Charles!” Scott shouts, loud in Logan’s ear but that doesn’t matter right now.

“We were going to go back for him,” Logan yells through the door, “we were going to go back up to the bridge and drag that sanctimonious asshole down here and strap him in next to you, damn it, let us out! It doesn’t have to be like this!”

Charles slowly straightens, his back still pressed against the far wall directly across from their tiny window. He wipes his eyes with one sleeve.

“Fuck!” Scott snarls, beating at the door. “Charles, come the _fuck_ on! You can’t do this! _You can’t fucking do this_!”

Charles carefully pushes himself off the wall, stepping forward to stand in front of them. His blue eyes, hard to see in the dim light, mirror the sorrow Logan can feel building in his chest. “I am so sorry,” he says, shakily but audible through the barrier between them, “you don’t deserve this, not after all you’ve done for me.”

“You’re goddamn right,” Logan snaps, but the fire has gone out of him. “Let us out.”

Charles shakes his head. “I’m so sorry. It’s alright if you hate us. It’s okay. We merit that. But one day, I hope, you’ll be able to forgive us.”

“God, Charles,” Scott says, his voice cracking, “don’t—”

“They’ll need you,” Charles says, and then offers the highest sign of his regard and respect by saluting them, fingers brushing against his temple as he gives them a small, faint smile. “See you for dinner.”

“No!” Logan and Scott shout in unison as the outer door to the escape pod shuts, blocking Charles from view, and then they’re thrown backwards off their feet away as the pod is launched, shooting out into open, empty space.

With a wordless, enraged cry, Logan punches the floor, anger and grief flooding through him. Beside him Scott stares up at the ceiling, for once not running his goddamn mouth. They’ve been betrayed by the very man they risked everything for, sent spiraling out into a warzone in a craft that Logan can’t even fucking steer, rendered useless and obsolete.

They’ve lost Charles and Erik.

He picks himself up, staggering over to the opposite end of the pod to the other porthole window. The pod has spun around in space, so with his limited view Logan can see the Heartsteel, surrounded by a mess of her own debris and still flanked by the two Nyrulian Destroyers, a black honor guard of death. As he watches, more escape pods are ejected, all members of the crew jettisoned out of the Heartsteel.

“It doesn’t make any sense,” he rasps as Scott climbs up from the floor too, “Fury’s got his hands full and now we’re just a fun goddamn target practice game for the Nyrulians to—”

The SEF Silvercomet drops out of warp, followed closely by the TES Mjölnir, both coming in hot with their cannons blazing as they send a wild barrage of plasma blasts raining down on the closest Destroyer flanking the Heartsteel. The Destroyer, with all of its shields currently based forward to protect only the side the Heartsteel is on, doesn’t stand a chance, a series of explosions going off on its unprotected flank before it blows apart completely, both Logan and Scott giving ragged cheers as they watch.

The Silvercomet hardly pauses, sweeping past the Heartsteel and the other Destroyer, moving out of sight but no doubt heading to assist the Ionstar. The Mjölnir stays, thrusters glowing as the ship slows to as much of a halt that anything can come to in space, tractor beams sweeping up the nearest of the Heartsteel’s escape pods and drawing them into the safety of its loading bay.

“They knew Frost and that huge Asgard Industries guy would come,” Scott says, relief evident in his voice, growing hopeful. “They knew. They have a plan.”

Logan frowns, his breath misting against the glass. Something still isn’t sitting right. “Then why the fuck,” he mutters, mostly to himself as the remaining Destroyer sends a searing ray of green towards the Mjölnir, which returns immediate fire with an impressive blue, “did Charles say goodbye?”

The answer comes in the form of an explosion—not the remaining Destroyer, and not the Mjölnir, but the Heartsteel, which Logan can do nothing but watch with his heart in his throat as the once proud, peerless ship blows apart from the inside out, remaining engines going supercritical and also erupting, all without warning. Shrapnel peppers the Mjölnir ‘s shields, erupting a series of iridescent bubbles all along its front and sides as pure concentrated energy repels the errant projectiles.

Logan watches numbly as the pods nearest the ship also display Asgard-trademark shimmering shields. Long distance remote shielding. State of the art technology, not that anyone ought to be surprised. He watches in silence as something that vaguely resembles a shard of Jeffrey’s tube casing hurtles towards them, bounds on the remote shielding around their pod, and flies away into deep, dead, empty space.

“They used the transporter pad,” Scott says hoarsely into the silence, “they’re on the Asgard ship. They’re on Frost’s ship. They’re not—” His voice breaks and he can’t continue.

Logan doesn’t answer. The wreckage of the Heartsteel, all mangled metal and unsalvageable parts, makes an odd picture with First Earth as a backdrop. The Nyrulian Destroyer’s engines glow red as it powers up and makes the jump to warp, disappearing in the blink of an eye as it makes its escape now that the Heartsteel is no more.

It’s funny, Logan thinks somewhere very far away, but all he can think about right now is planet Earth.

It’s so very, very blue.

 

X

 

Charles uses the wall to pull himself back down the corridor towards the lift, every step agony for his leg. It’s nothing compared to the pain of recalling Logan and Scott’s faces just before he’d launched the escape pod, desperate and pleading with him through the tiny window.

It’s for the best. It means they’ll survive this and _live_.

He’s dragging his leg as a useless deadweight by the time he makes it inside the elevator, clumsily searching for the manual control panel to punch in the code for the bridge. It’s taking all of his concentration to remain standing, his entire body shaking with the effort of not giving in to collapse.

Erik is there when the doors slide open again, arms ready to catch Charles when he pitches forward, bearing all of Charles’ weight as he tucks Charles against himself.

“It’s done,” Charles murmurs into Erik’s chest, allowing himself to be maneuvered as Erik draws him further onto the bridge. “It’s done. It’s over.”

“You did well,” Erik answers, his chest vibrating with his voice. His good arm holds Charles up, keeping him standing, while his injured arm merely presses against Charles’ back, holding their bodies close. “I—when I had to order them to take you away—” He stops, and Charles feels rather than sees him shake his head. “They believed you. Rest now.”

Charles breathes him in for a moment, believing for a second that he can feel Erik’s blood rushing and hear his heartbeat, his brain synapses firing, and all the other vital signs of life. He slides his arms around Erik to hold onto him too, because now at last he never has to let go ever again.

“Everything is set,” Erik says quietly when Charles lifts his head. They stand together in front of the Captain’s chair, gazing at the viewscreen. The Heartsteel has spun around, facing First Earth again, giving them a magnificent view of cool blue ocean water and serene fluffy clouds, a whole world away from the battle raging high above her. “Ready?”

Charles squeezes his eyes shut for a moment and breathes, hands fisted in the front of Erik’s shirt. Then he opens them again and nods.

“Open transmission,” Erik orders, “hail the Destroyer.”

The screen goes dark, waiting, and then Cain’s face comes back into view. “What’s the matter, Cain,” Charles says, watching his stepbrother’s face twist into pure hatred at the sight of them, “I thought you were coming to get us.”

“You’re still on the ship?” Cain says, eyes alight with the madness of terrible wrath. “We saw the escape pods and figured—” He breaks off and laughs, a high, awful sound. “You’re making this _too easy_ , you—”

“Initiate countdown,” Erik interrupts, voice unwavering, “set timer to thirty seconds till ship-wide detonation.”

Cain freezes, eyes bulging. “What—what are you—”

“I told you, Cain,” Charles says softly, coldly taking in the first wave of real panic that begins to creep across Cain’s face as he begins to realize, “you will never touch us again. You lose.”

“End transmission,” Erik says, and then it’s over. Cain’s face is gone at last, the main screen reverting back to the view of first Earth.

Overlying that in large, semi-transparent numbers is a swiftly depleting countdown, seconds already swiftly draining away.

“Good,” Charles whispers, the words a soft, tiny sigh, turning away to face Erik, “we did it.”

“You did it,” Erik corrects him gently, and when Charles lifts his gaze he finds Erik looking back at him, eyes clear and unblinking.

“I love you,” Charles says, voice trembling, “I love you _so much_ —”

“I love you,” Erik answers, ragged and raw, “and I will love you until the stars grow cold.”

This time their kiss is fiery, pouring all of themselves into it without restraint, standing together on the bridge of their proud, dying ship in pure defiance to all enemies, against all odds, Prince and War-Prince, Charles and Erik. He closes his eyes and thinks of Erik—Erik in the Captain’s chair, straight-backed and calm; Erik with the golden glow of Third Earth’s sun Ignea highlighting his hair on a lazy afternoon spent lounging in the quad at the Academy; Erik giving him an exasperated but wry look at the antics of Scott and Logan when neither of them notice, the look secret and meant for Charles only; Erik in bed, all sharp angles and hard, sculpted features but such gentle, tender hands; Erik here and now, bloodstained and worn and exhausted but holding Charles in his arms as they kiss, here at the end of this run they’ve had.

Their kiss ends but Charles keeps his eyes closed as they rest their foreheads together, waiting for the timer to run out and the count to reach zero. He wonders what it feels like, to truly go supernova.

The ship begins to rumble around them and beneath them, and Charles lets out a small sound but Erik holds him tighter and whispers, “Don’t look, Charles,” so he keeps his eyes closed even though beyond his eyelids it’s so very bright—

 

X

 

“That can’t be right,” Stark says into the abrupt silence that has fallen over the Ionstar’s bridge. How or why Stark is on the bridge in the first place is still a question Fury would like an answer to, though the answer probably begins with Steve and ends with Rogers. “We—no, this is all wrong. We’re right here.”

Fury watches Rogers cross over to where Stark stands, joining him in front of the station he’d commandeered as soon as he’d invited his pretty little ass onto Fury’s bridge somewhere during the action of taking on three Nyrulian Destroyers at once. “Tony,” Rogers says tentatively, but he can’t fully keep out the emptiness that always creeps in hand-in-hand with devastating loss, “it’s…”

“Wrong,” Stark supplies frankly. “We swooped in and saved the day. Lady Ice Queen swooped in and saved _our_ day—which, by the way, was so well done, bravo, I can’t tell any of those three Destroyers apart now that she’s scattered them all in pieces right in front of us—and even Point-Break swooped in to have a little fun. The Heartsteel can’t be gone. That’s ridiculous.”

“Tony,” Rogers repeats, more sharply this time, “the Heartsteel is gone.”

“The Nyrulians are running, sir,” Coulson reports, “shall we give chase?”

“Negative,” Fury answers. “Switch to damage control. This fight is over.”

“Text transmission from the Mjölnir, sir,” Hill speaks up, “Mr. Odison confirms that all escape pods ejected from the Heartsteel have been collected. According to their logs all members of the crew have been accounted for except for War-Prince Erik Lehnsherr and Prince Charles Xavier.”

“Then where are—” Stark mumbles, fingers skating across the panel in front of him, and Fury rolls his single eye when, three seconds later, the kid has accessed the Ionstar’s transmission sequence. “Ground control to Major Tom. This is Tony Stark, paging Charles Xavier and Erik Lehnsherr. Helloooooo out there. You two owe me a coffee at least. Rude to skimp. Hey. Charles. Sharkman. Charles. _Charles_.”

“Incoming transmission from Grand Duchess Frost,” Hill calls, “she wants to know if Lehnsherr and Xavier are with us.”

Fury doesn’t have to check to know. “Negative.”

“Tony, stop.” Rogers reaches forward to gently tap the panel, ending the open transmission. Ever the strategist, composed to the end, Rogers is accepting the inevitable a lot faster than Stark. “That’s enough. They’re gone.”

“Well,” Stark says after a long pause, with an air of such false calm that Fury nearly feels sorry for the kid, “isn’t that a load of bullshit.” He slams away from the console, hopping up onto the raised platform and stalking off the bridge.

“Tony!” Rogers calls after him, and vaults up onto the walkway as if he means to give chase. He comes to a stop, however, in front of Fury. For all the brilliant, brilliant thoughts and plans and strategies circulating underneath that pretty-boy blond hair, Master Tactician Steve Rogers has never looked nor sounded more lost in his entire career when he asks, “What now, sir?”

Fury knows he forgets, sometimes, that not everyone is as cynical and weathered by time and disappointment as he is, hardened by years of military intelligence duty that has given him knowledge capable of razing any whisper of ingenuity or innocence. Lives are precious and deaths ought to be regretted but a death is a death and the dead will mind themselves. Fury has to deal with the business of the living, now. He wishes there could be anything he could say that would ease the look of broken heartache on Roger’s face, but he knows from experience that there isn’t—no comfort to be found so close to the death of friends, not even in duty. And even if comfort were possible, it isn’t his lookout to coddle his crew.

“Now,” Fury says heavily, because unlike the rest of these children who have been thrust into war, he knows _exactly_ what they must do, which is the only thing they _can_ do, “we get to work.”

Not everyone gets their happy ending, he thinks as he watches Steve’s face shutter, closing off and hardening as the harsh reality finally sinks in. It’s not always just. It’s not always fair.

Sometimes it’s just an ending.


	15. Epilogue - See you, space cowboy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enormous and heartfelt thanks to **MonstrousRegiment** for not only agreeing to write this monster with me, but for also staying on till the very end and hanging in there even when life on both of our separate ends (in opposite hemispheres!) forced this fic to the back burner more often than we initially envisioned, haha. Your words in this story far outshine my own and it’s been a fandom dream come true to collaborate with you - senpai has noticed me! :’) Panstrous Greg for life, partner.  <3
> 
>  
> 
> As for the rest of you...see you for dinner. ;)

X

 

It takes hours to be debriefed.

The Heartsteel’s crew is transported from Thor’s ship to the Ionstar to face Fury’s judgment, where they all find pardon in the form of Grand Duchess Frost, who steps forward with a testimony and describes how shortly before the Heartsteel entered Nyrulian territory, she received a transmission from War-Prince Erik Lehnsherr formally announcing that he was holding all members of his crew hostage. Frost delivers her recount of the transmission unflinchingly, staring straight ahead unblinkingly at perfect attention, a perfect lie told perfectly convincingly.

It’s also perfectly clear that Fury doesn’t buy it for a second, but afterwards the pardons are handed out like goddamn candy, accepted by the stone-faced crew.

Every member of the bridge crew is questioned separately; each made to painstakingly go over every minute of what they each witnessed on the bridge starting from the moment Creed took Charles hostage and ending with their dismissal from the bridge shortly before the Heartsteel imploded. Logan is the very last to be called in, and when he takes a seat in front of Fury’s desk he stares at the Paladin and grunts, “You ain’t going to hear anything new from me.”

“On the contrary, Mr. Howlett,” Fury says, single eye unreadable, “you and Mr. Summers were the last two on that bridge besides Xavier and Lehnsherr themselves. Care to tell me how they got you to leave?”

Logan is sick of this. His chest is hollow with grief, and maybe he was betrayed, just as they all were by Charles and Erik, but he’s sick of painting two of his oldest friends as traitors when nothing could be further from the truth. “They asked nicely.”

“That’s not what Mr. Summers said.”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, sir, but Legionnaire Summers is a dumbass.”

Fury stares at him flatly. “He said that they, and I quote, ‘told us to fuck off.’”

Logan snorts, quiet and tired. “Well. It was a tense moment.”

Fury leans forward, resting his elbows on the surface of his desk and steepling his fingers. “You and I both know that whatever it is that happened on the bridge of the Heartsteel—”

“Look,” Logan interrupts him because fuck it, he doesn’t care anymore, “it’s been a long goddamn day. You’ve got bigger fish to fry in the form of Nyrulians starting a war, and the last thing you want to do is investigate something that’s been pretty fucking clear since the start of all this shit. The Heartsteel had some special tech on it. The Nyrulians wanted it, and bought out the Markos to get a hold on Charles. Erik lost his goddamn mind and went running after them because, if you weren’t aware, the man can’t fucking _function_ without—without—”

He has to stop to take a breath. Goddamn Charles and goddamn Erik.

Fury waits silently, unmoving.

“You’ve heard the shit that went down on Geonosis,” Logan continues, recomposing himself. Hank had been in Fury’s office for close to two hours, being the most senior crewmember besides Erik himself that had gone down to the Nyrulian outpost. Logan himself hasn’t even heard that full story, and isn’t sure that he ever wants to. “And after that you were pretty much there yourself. We ran. They chased. Erik and Charles got every last person off the Heartsteel except for themselves, and then blew their ship up. End of story.”

A ringing silence follows.

“End of story,” Fury repeats after a long pause, finally sitting back in his chair. “So that’s it. They destroyed the ship, destroyed themselves, and that’s it.”

Logan just stares at him.

Fury lets out a long breath of air. He looks like he could use a stiff drink. Logan can sympathize. “You’re free to go. I can’t hold any of your sorry asses in the brig since Frost has made sure to clear all your names of responsibility, but if any of you make any sort of attempt to leave this ship before I reassign your commissions, I’ll court martial your asses to hell and back.”

Logan nearly laughs. It’s like Fury thinks he has the energy to even think that far ahead. He pushes back from Fury’s desk and stands, turning for the door.

“Howlett,” Fury says when he’s nearly there, and Logan stops. “I’ve been watching Xavier since he first enrolled in the Academy, and Lehnsherr long before that. Those two have been on a different wavelength from the rest of us since the start.”

“End of transmission,” Logan answers gruffly, and then leaves the office.

The Ionstar is buzzing with activity, even though Logan has long since lost track of what shift cycle it’s supposed to be. He has no real sense of where he’s headed, too tired to deal with people but not tired enough to head back to the temporary quarters he’s already been assigned. He makes his way through the crowded corridors, sticking to the side to keep out of the way, shoving his hands into his pockets.

His fingers in his right pocket brush against something small and flat, making him pause. Carefully, he feels out a round, smooth edge of what appears to be an oval, flat disk the size of two of his fingers. He brushes his fingers over the disk’s surface, and that’s when he starts to run.

Logan sprints down the corridor, ignoring the outraged cries of anyone he brushes roughly aside. He makes it all the way down to the long line of elevators, yanking a scientist who’s just stepping on to an empty lift back out of the way and barreling inside, snapping out a terse, “Close doors. Observatory deck.”

The lift rises swiftly but Logan barely pays attention, standing tense and still in the center of it with his one hand fisted in his pocket. He doesn’t dare take it out to examine the object he’s found. Not yet.

The Ionstar’s observatory deck is a huge dome on the crest of the ship, offering a 360-degree view of the cosmos overhead. With most of the Ionstar’s crew on duty and busy with the onset of war, the deck is empty save for Scott, who leans against the railing at the far end, staring out into space. Bingo. He knew that Scott would be moping somewhere like this. Logan jogs over to him, grabbing him by the shoulder and yanking Scott around to face him.

“What the fuck do you want?” Scott asks, but he lacks all of his usual vitriol.

Logan takes his hand out of his pocket, holding up a sleek, navy blue disk. “This was in my pocket.”

Scott stares at him. “Congratulations, asshole, your jump drive didn’t get blown up. My brother is fine, by the way, thanks for fucking asking, he’s only a little scarred for fucking life—”

“It’s not mine.” Logan flips it around to show Scott the other side. Scott’s mouth snaps audibly shut.

“Holy shit,” Scott says when he regains words again, eyes widening, “when the fuck did you get this?”

“I don’t— _fuck_.” Logan wants to punch the railing. “When we fell out of the elevator. He landed nearly on top of me, he must’ve—”

Shaking his head, Logan lowers the disk to chest height, holding it out flat, so that the button with a large **R** on it is facing upwards. Taking a deep breath, he presses it with his thumb, and the **R** begins to glow.

There’s a pause, and then a small hologram flickers into view, projected to hover above the disk. Raven stands in her Keflar form, only six inches tall with her hands folded neatly in front of her.

“Raven,” Logan says, his throat nearly closed.

“Voice recognition confirmed. Greetings, Legionnaire Howlett,” Raven answers, her calm voice slightly tinny now in this smaller form. “Play back last recorded message?”

“Yes,” Logan says, hardly daring to hope.

Raven’s form flickers once and then disappears, the hologram switching to project a small, square screen. It’s blank for a moment before the message begins to play, and Logan throws his free hand out to grip the railing tightly when Charles and Erik come into view.

“Hello Logan,” Charles says, “hello Scott.”

“Oh my god,” Scott breathes.

“You’ll forgive me if we get right to the point, as we don’t have much time.” Charles offers them the same sad, faint smile he had right before he’d launched their escape pod. Behind him, over his shoulder, Erik’s gaze remains only on the recording camera in brief glances, his eyes resting mostly on the Prince as Charles continues. “The disk you’re holding contains the entirety of Raven’s master program. We’re entrusting her to you.”

“We had to make it appear as if she had been destroyed,” Erik says, giving the camera his full attention at last. Even as a recording his gaze is direct and intense. “Thus all three components had to be eliminated: the ship, and the two keys, _heart_ and _steel_.”

He sounds so calm, for someone talking about ending his own life.

“The Nyrulians would have never stopped until they got the tech,” Charles says, “and even if we’d only blown up the Heartsteel, they never would have stopped hunting for Erik and I, in hopes that we might still hold some secret about it. It’s better for everyone if all possibility of the tech being used, or recreated, is lost. Or, at the very least, thought to be.”

“It’s up to you to decided what to do with her,” Erik says, “and who you decide to tell. The secret is better kept now that Charles and I are out of the equation. The Nyrulians won’t know you still possess the tech until it’s too late, if you do decide to use it.” He pauses, visibly deliberating for half a second. “Take care of her.”

“Take care of _yourselves_ ,” Charles adds, “and we’re sorry. We know it isn’t fair. But we couldn’t let Raven be destroyed. She’s the last legacy of the Keflars, and you’re the only ones we can trust enough to ask. So, in advance—thank you. Good luck.” The ship rocks, the picture jarring for a moment, and when it stills again, Charles is giving them one last tiny, rueful smile. “Goodbye, my friends.”

He reaches forward to end the recording, granting Scott and Logan a brief glimpse of Erik saluting them through the camera, solemn and dignified, and then the screen goes blank.

“Delete last played message?” Raven’s voice asks calmly.

“Yes,” Logan answers after a long pause, tearing his eyes away from where he and Scott had been staring at each other in shock.

“Message erased. Legionnaire Howlett.” The hologram flickers and Raven reappears, head slightly titled to look up at him. “Are they truly gone, sir.”

“Goddamn it,” Scott whispers, turning away.

For a moment Logan can’t quite find his voice, his words lodging somewhere in his throat. He’s not supposed to be sentimental, damn it. Not about his bosses. Not about his friends.

“Yeah, dollface,” he says at last, the words dropping like stones and taking some of the pressing weight off his shoulders to say it directly out loud, “they’re gone.”

Raven is silent for a moment. “I see,” she says at last, no inflection to her tone whatsoever, and then a moment later her hologram form flickers out of sight. The **R** in the center of the disk slowly loses its glow and the disk is rendered dark.

Logan slips it back into his pocket to leave her alone for now. He wonders if she feels claustrophobic, having gone from having reign over an entire ship to a tiny disk no bigger than a jump drive.

He wonders if it’s within her programming parameters, to be able to grieve.

“What the fuck are we supposed to do?” Scott asks without turning around. His hands are clenched tightly on the railing. “What the _fuck_ are we supposed to do now?”

“I don’t know,” Logan says wearily, rubbing his eyes with one hand. Different goddamn wavelength indeed. “We’re the only two people who know the tech still exists.”

Scott lets out a long, shuddering sigh.

On the other end of the deck, the lift doors slide open and Steve Rogers steps out underneath the stars, walking purposefully towards them. Scott turns around at the sound and together he and Logan watch the Paladin approach, letting him come to them.

“Gentlemen.” Steve stops in front of them. Neither of them moves to snap to attention or any other form of decorum, but the Paladin doesn’t seem to notice nor care, his face serious. “I know this is a little soon after today, but unfortunately time isn’t a luxury we possess.” Logan has to hide his wince at the similar-sounding echo of Charles’ words. “I’m being recommissioned to my own ship, and I’d like to know if you’d do me the honor of joining my crew.”

“Does Fury know you’re asking?” Logan asks bluntly.

The corners of Steve’s mouth curve up, there and gone. “Not yet. It seemed politer to ask you first before going to argue with Fury about your reassignments.”

“What about Tony?” Scott demands.

Steve blinks, but then his expression softens. “We’re working it out. He’d work magic in the engine room, Academy degree or not, that’s for damn sure.” He grows serious again, looking at each of them in turn. “What do you say, gentlemen?”

Logan and Scott exchange glances.

 

X

 

X

 

X

 

Charles opens his eyes as soon as the bright light around him diminishes, much like the Universe once upon a time, when that first initial detonation of light following the Big Bang faded into starlight.

He still clings to Erik, Erik’s arms warm and tight around him. They’re no longer standing on the Heartsteel’s bridge, no more dwindling countdown staring them in the face. Instead they stand on a very familiar transporter pad on a very familiar ship.

“You saved our lives,” Charles says softly.

“I know,” says Marvin, “wretched, isn’t it?”

Erik presses a soft kiss to the side of Charles’ temple, drawing back slightly without letting go. “Come this way.”

Together they limp out of the transporter room, through a doorway that opens with a sigh, and down a short corridor until they emerge onto the bridge of the one and only Bright Morning Sun Rising Over the Tall Craggy Mountains While the Silvery Mist Curls Gently Through the Trees on a Light Breeze that Wafts the Smell of the Cooling Pie Sitting on the Windowsill Throughout the Entire Log Cabin.

Wade spins around in his chair as they enter. “Welcome back, Your Majesties!”

“Hello Wade,” Charles greets him wearily, allowing Erik to gently lower him down onto the couch Wade inexplicably keeps on his bridge. Erik collapses down next to him and they huddle into each other as best as they can with Charles’ bad leg and Erik’s injured arm. “Thank you.”

“I told you,” Wade says very, very seriously, “we’re bros for life.”

“And that there’s always another option,” Charles adds quietly.

Wade hoots with laughter, his seriousness evaporating in an instant. “I have to admit, dude, your plan was whack. I _loved_ it.”

“And let’s never do that again,” Erik murmurs in his ear, and Charles can only manage a nod. “You were brilliant, Charles. You outmaneuvered _everyone_.”

“I wish I didn’t have to,” Charles says wearily, “god, I wish I didn’t have to.”

“Easy,” Erik says, for his ears only, and Charles shuts his eyes. “Where are we, Wade?”

“Jupiter!” Wade answers cheerfully. “You said to be close, but not close enough to be spotted. The Improbability Drive wanted to go right in the middle of the Great Red Spot. Who are we to say no, eh, Marvin?”

“I’ve seen it before. It’s rubbish.”

“No one will be able to detect us here,” Erik says, his right hand stroking Charles’ back gently, “not with the storm surrounding us. We’re safe.”

“We’re alive,” Charles whispers, resting against Erik, his body slowly starting to go slack.

“We’re alive,” Erik agrees, his chest rising and falling in a soft sigh of relief.

“I talked to one of my best bros,” Wade says, “he’s good with secrets. _Real_ good. Even though he’s got, like, a weird name. Who would ever want to go by _Loki_? It throws some major shade, man.”

“I don’t know, Deadpool,” Erik says wearily, and Charles huffs a small breath, “you tell me.”

“I knew you’d feel me, man.” Wade points at him in acknowledgement. “But anyway, he’s got connections with some people. Some _major_ people. They can hide you. And dude, while you’re there, you should get your arm checked out, I think there’s something wrong with it.”

“Charles?” Erik asks him, giving him a small, careful nudge.

Charles lifts his head, looking first at Wade. “Do it, please. As soon as it’s safe to move without being detected. We’re off the radar. We need to stay that way.”

“You got it, bro.” Wade spins around to face his console.

“We’ll drop off the map for awhile,” Charles says to Erik, safe with him at last, “and we’ll rest. We’ll heal.”

“And then?” Erik asks him softly, an entire galaxy reflected in eyes that are still bright with life, and Charles’ resolve hardens because the Nyrulians didn’t win today, didn’t rob him of the strong, brave, wonderful man in front of him, and won’t win in the future, not if he has anything to say about it.

“And then,” Charles answers, because the Nyrulians won’t ever see them coming, and they’re Charles and Erik and not even a supernova could outshine them now, “we fight.”

 

X

 

X

 

X

 

Bright Morning Sun Rising Over the Tall Craggy Mountains While the Silvery Mist Curls Gently Through the Trees on a Light Breeze that Wafts the Smell of the Cooling Pie Sitting on the Windowsill Throughout the Entire Log Cabin’s engines begin to hum, powering up to make another impossible, illogical jump to destinations unknown.

Deadpool glances up from his console and tips an invisible hat in your general direction, grinning like a lunatic. “See you, space cowboy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Space Oddity Will Return._ **


End file.
